1.1 


THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES 

EXTON  MANOR 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  SQUIRE'S  DAUGHTER 

THE  HONOUR  OF  THE  CLINTONS 

THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE 

THE  OLD  ORDER  CHANGETH 

WATBRMEAD8 

UPSIDONIA 

ABINGTON  ABBET 

THE  QRAFTON8 

RICHARD  BALDOCK 

THE  CLINTONS  AND  OTHERS 


THE 
HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES 


Bv 

ARCHIBALD  MARSHALL 

Author  of  "Exton  Manor,"  "The  Honour  of  the  Clintons," 
"The  Greatest  of  These,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1905 
By  ARCHIBALD  MARSHALL 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 


Co 
MY  WIFE. 


2066161 


CONTENTS 


CHAF.  H0« 

I.  THE    COTTAGE    AT    HIGHGATB  •           •           •           •  I 

II.  CAMBRIDGE  DAYS     ......  13 

III.  SOME    LETTERS   AND   AN    INTERVIEW          .           •  25 

IV.  THE    HOUSE   OP   MERRILEES                  •           •           .  38 

T.  AT  THE   END   OF  THE   JOURNEY         •           •           •  52 

VI.  MRS.  CHEETHAM'S  THEORY      .        ...  62 

VII.  MR.   PHIPP   EXPLAINS         •          •          •          •          •  77 

VIII.  CONJECTURES.           ••••••  Q2 

IX.  LORD   CARADOC   AND   A   CRICKET   MATCH   .           .  104 

X.  GUY   BERTRAM    RECEIVES   AN    INVITATION           .  Il8 

XI.  MR.    RICHARDS    IS    DISPLEASED           •           .           .126 

XII.  MERRILEES   AGAIN    .•••••  143 

XIII.  THE   GREAT  WORK  .•••••  157 

XIV.  GUY   BERTRAM    MAKES   A  PROMISE     •           •           .  l6g 
XV.  "YOU    MUST    BRING    ME    MORE*'         •           •           •  184 

XVI.  LIKE   A   THIEF   IN   THE   NIGHT            •           •          •  ig6 

XVII.  "  ALWAYS   MY   SON "           •           •          •          •           .  9OQ 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHA». 

XVIII.  AT   CLOSE   QUARTERS         •           •  •  •  •  224 

XIX.  A   VOICE    FROM    THE    PAST          •  •  •  •  237 

XX.  LORD    CARADOC    TAKES    ADVICE  .  •  •  25! 

XXI.  CHRISTMAS   AT    HOLLINGBOURNE  HALL  .  •  263 

XXII.  MRS.    HERBERT    INTERVENES  •  •  •  276 

XXIII.  PEGGY  AND    HER   FATHER  •  •  .  288 

XXIV.  MRS.   HERBERT   VISITS   GLASGOW  •  •  •  293 
XXV.  IMPORTANT   NEWS    .•••••  306 

XXVI.  MARTIN   AT   LAST      .  .  .  .  .  .321 

xxvn.  MRS.  HERBERT'S  STORY.    •  •  •  •  335 

XXVIII.  THE    MYSTERY    CLEARING            .  .  •  .  346 

XXIX.  THE    MYSTERY   CLEARED  .            .  .  «  .  355 

XXX.  THE   BND   OF  THE   STORY           •  •  •  •  378 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THl   COTTAGE  AT  HIGHGATB. 

SOME  years  ago  there  came  to  the  pleasant  suburb  of 
Highgate,  to  a  little  cottage  at  the  end  of  the  lime  grove, 
by  the  church,  a  young  woman  and  her  infant  son.  Her 
name  was  Mrs.  Greenfield,  and  although  she  was  young  in 
years,  the  lines  in  her  face,  and  the  grey  threads  showing 
through  her  brown  hair,  seemed  to  tell  of  troubles  endured 
before  she  had  lighted  on  this  peaceful  haven  for  herself 
and  her  child.  Whatever  those  troubles  may  have  been, 
her  life  now  ran  a  tranquil  course,  and  was  lightened  by 
her  love  for  her  little  son  and  pride  in  his  achievements. 
In  his  years  of  early  childhood  no  hand  but  hers  tended 
him,  and  she  gave  him  his  first  lessons,  finding  him  quick 
to  learn  and  a  very  glutton  for  books.  He  soon  reached 
the  limits  of  her  modest  attainments,  and  was  sent  at 
a  very  early  age  to  the  old  school  at  the  top  of  the  hill. 

This  was  a  great  day  for  little  George.  He  proudly 
refused  all  escort,  set  out  by  himself  to  take  his  first 
plunge  into  life,  and  came  running  all  the  way  home  at 
half  past  twelve  o'clock,  an  excited  little  knickerbockered 
figure,  to  find  his  mother  waiting  at  the  gate  for  him,  to 
whom  he  poured  out  all  the  thronging  events  of  the 
morning,  from  the  nine  o'clock  service  in  the  chapel,  "  full  of 

H.M.  B 


2  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

boys,  mother,  some  with  moustaches,  and  all  the  masters 
in  their  gowns,  and  the  clergyman  who  read  the  prayers 
with  a  red  thing  on  his  back,  not  a  black  and  white  one 
like  the  vicar,"  through  his  short  examination  by  the  awful 
headmaster,  who  had  smiled  at  his  littleness  and  put  his 
hand  on  his  head,  to  the  culminating  event  of  his  ending 
up  three  places  from  the  top  of  the  form  instead  of  at  the 
very  bottom. 

Thereafter  followed  years  of  work  and  quiet  contentment. 
The  cottage  had  a  shady  little  garden  in  front  and  another 
behind.  Its  rooms  were  very  cosy.  In  the  winter  evenings, 
when  the  two  sat  together  in  the  parlour,  with  the  lamp 
on  the  table,  George  at  his  lessons  and  his  mother  at  her 
needlework,  they  might  have  been  far  away  from  the  noise 
and  stir  of  the  great  city.  Everything  was  quiet,  within 
and  without,  and  Mrs.  Greenfield  would  put  down  her 
work  and  gaze  at  the  boy,  with  his  curly  head  bent  over 
his  books,  absorbed  in  his  preparations  for  the  morrow. 
Whatever  trouble  she  had  undergone  in  her  early  days  it 
soon  became  plain,  to  her  intense  thankfulness,  that  this 
beautiful  child  of  her  heart,  with  his  graceful,  chivalrous 
ways,  his  clever  brain  and  his  balanced  orderly  outlook  on 
life,  would  cause  her  none.  There  was  unbroken  love  and 
confidence  in  the  little  cottage  and  a  home  life  of  constant 
companionship,  upon  which  George  ever  after  looked  back 
with  the  tenderest  feelings  of  gratitude. 

Her  early  troubles  Mrs.  Greenfield  hid  from  the  child, 
but  he  divined  something  of  them  when  he  was  old  enough 
to  ask  her  why  she  never  spoke  to  him  of  his  father.  She 
became  troubled,  caught  at  her  breast,  and  told  him  if  he 
wanted  to  please  her  he  must  never  speak  to  her  on  that 
subject  again.  "  I  was  very  unhappy  before  you  were 
born,"  she  said, "  but  I  shall  never  be  unhappy  again  if  you 
grow  up  into  a  good  man  and  never  forget  to  love  me." 


THE  COTTAGE  AT  HIGHGATE,  3 

And  little  George,  with  kisses  and  sobbed  out  words  ol 
love,  climbed  on  to  her  lap  and  threw  his  arms  round  her 
neck  and  comforted  her  as  only  little  children  can  comfort 
a  woman,  and  not  for  years  after  troubled  her  with  further 
questions. 

There  was  one  periodical  visitor  to  the  cottage  whom 
George  never  liked.  This  was  a  Mr.  Richards,  a  gloomy, 
taciturn  man,  who  showed  him  none  of  the  little  kindnesses 
which  take  a  child's  heart.  He  grew  to  learn  that 
Mr.  Richards  was  in  some  sort  the  dispenser  of  his  mother's 
income,  although  she  told  him  as  soon  as  he  was  old 
enough  to  understand  that  her  income  was  her  own,  and 
not  dependent  on  the  goodwill  of  anybody.  He  supposed 
Mr.  Richards  to  have  been  a  friend  of  his  father's,  although 
his  father  was  never  alluded  to  between  them ;  and  he 
liked  him  none  the  better  on  that  account.  When  George 
had  embarked  on  his  school  career,  Mr.  Richards  on  his 
occasional  visits  would  feign  a  vast  interest  in  the  progress 
of  his  studies,  but  the  boy,  with  the  penetration  and 
impatient  scorn  of  youth,  detected  soon  enough  that  he 
had  no  real  knowledge  of  the  subjects  on  which  he  cross- 
examined  him.  His  mother  had  none  either,  but  then  she 
made  no  pretences,  and  he  would  talk  fully  to  her  of  all 
things  he  was  interested  in,  sure,  at  any  rate,  of  her  sym- 
pathy, while  under  the  heavy  hand  of  Mr.  Richards  he 
would  retire  into  himself  and  refuse  to  be  drawn  either 
into  discussion  or  self-revelation.  He  noticed  also  by-and- 
by  that  his  mother  looked  forward  to  this  man's  visits  with 
shrinking,  and  did  not  recover  her  usual  tranquillity  of 
spirit  for  some  days  afterwards.  So  he  would  look  upon 
Mr.  Richards  with  a  dark  and  unfriendly  eye  when  he 
appeared,  and  afterwards  promise  himself  a  time  when  he 
should  be  old  enough  to  suggest  to  him  that  he  should 
appear  no  more. 


4  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

And  so  when  Mrs.  Greenfield  told  him  one  day,  soon 
after  he  had  begun  to  go  to  school,  that  poor  Mr.  Richards 
had  lost  his  wife,  George,  so  far  from  expressing  pity  for 
that  gentleman,  was  inclined  to  the  opinion,  which,  how- 
ever, he  did  not  impart  to  his  mother,  that  it  served  him 
right.  But  when  she  went  on  to  tell  him  that  Mr.  Richards 
had  a  little  baby  girl,  that  he  had  asked  her  if  she  would 
take  care  of  her  at  Highgate,  and  that  she  had  consented, 
George's  feelings  of  grief  and  dismay  were  too  keen  to  keep 
to  himself.  He  threw  himself  into  his  mother's  arms  and 
implored  her  with  tears  and  howls  to  preserve  the  inviolable 
sanctity  of  their  home. 

Mrs.  Greenfield  was  touched  by  the  child's  fears  and 
distress,  but  she  told  him  that  she  should  always  love  him 
best,  and  that  if  he  loved  his  home  and  his  mother  he 
ought  to  be  all  the  readier  to  share  them  with  a  poor  little 
child  who  had  neither. 

George,  perceiving  the  weak  points  in  this  argument, 
replied  in  effect  that  he  could  not  spare  any  of  his  own 
mother,  and  that  if  the  house  in  which  Mr.  Richards  lived 
could  not  fitly  be  termed  a  home,  which  he  could  well 
believe,  the  baby  girl  was  not  old  enough  to  know  any 
better,  and  could  not  possibly  object  to  it  as  much  as  he 
himself  undoubtedly  should  if  he  were  so  unfortunate  as  to 
find  himself  in  her  place.  It  was  a  very  unhappy  little  boy. 
instead  of  a  very  eager  one,  who  went  back  to  school  that 
afternoon,  and  a  very  unhappy  face  that  he  carried  about 
at  home  until  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Richards  with  the  baby 
girl  in  question  two  days  afterwards  put  an  end  to  his 
misery. 

The  baby  girl  was  a  sweet  little  gipsy  of  eighteen  months. 
Her  name  was  Peggy.  George  could  see  no  beauty  in  her 
as  long  as  her  father  remained  in  the  house,  and  behaved 
Tery  much  like  a  big  puppy  whose  nose  has  been  put  out 


THE  COTTAGE  AT  HIGHGATE.  5 

of  joint  by  a  very  little  one.  But  no  sooner  had  Mr.  Richards 
departed  than  he  threw  himself  literally  at  her  feet,  and 
remained  there  metaphorically  thenceforward.  The  joys 
of  the  quiet  little  household  were  doubled  by  the  advent 
of  this  black-eyed,  rosy,  dimpled,  audacious,  tyrannical, 
naughty,  kissable,  merry,  and  altogether  fascinating  Peggy. 
George  adored  her  from  the  bottom  of  his  big  heart,  and 
she  ruled  him  with  a  rod  of  iron.  He  would  run  home 
after  school  to  be  with  her  for  five  minutes,  instead  of 
tearing  down  to  the  playing-field  as  fast  as  his  legs  could 
carry  him,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  career  he  had  some 
difficulty  in  settling  down  to  his  lessons  in  the  evening, 
and  never  did  so  with  an  undivided  mind  until  the 
mysteries  of  Peggy's  evening  toilet  were  accomplished,  and 
she  was  put  to  bed  in  her  little  cot  in  Mrs.  Greenfield's 
room.  She  introduced  the  element  of  childish  naughtiness 
into  the  cottage,  which  had  hitherto  been  singularly  free 
from  such  an  experience,  and  George  found  it  impossible 
to  judge  whether  she  was  most  entrancing  when  she  put 
her  small  foot  down  and  insisted  upon  having  her  own 
way,  or  when,  having  been  baulked  in  that  decision,  and 
the  inevitable  storm  having  burst  and  then  passed  away  in 
showers  of  tears,  she  kissed  and  made  friends  again  in 
adorable  penitence.  Mrs.  Greenfield  might  have  felt  some 
twinges  of  jealousy  over  the  whole-hearted  devotion  shown 
by  the  boy  to  the  tiny  child,  but  that  it  made  no  difference 
in  his  affection  for  herself.  His  heart  was  big  enough  to 
embrace  them  both. 

Peggy,  as  she  grew  older,  showed  scant  feelings  of  filial 
respect  towards  her  father  during  his  somewhat  rare  visits. 
She  was  so  much  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Greenfield,  and  the 
•ister  of  George,  that  a  father  whom  she  saw  twice  or  at 
most  three  or  four  times  a  year  could  hardly  expect  much 
warmth  of  feeling  from  her.  Nor  did  Mr.  Richards  show 


6  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

any  great  affection  for  the  child.  He  never  asked  that  she 
should  visit  him  at  his  home,  but  seemed  content  to  leave 
her  entirely  to  Mrs.  Greenfield's  care.  He  took  some 
interest  in  her  education,  however,  and  before  she  was 
eleven  insisted  upon  her  being  packed  off  to  a  boarding 
school  at  Brighton. 

George  was  at  this  time  seventeen,  and  had  somewhat 
asserted  his  authority  over  her.  It  made  a  great  gap  in 
his  life  when  Peggy  was  carried  off  by  her  father  in  floods 
of  tears  at  the  beginning  of  the  summer  term.  For  a  few 
days  he  was  the  most  disconsolate  of  mortals,  but  the 
interests  of  his  school  work  and  of  the  approaching  cricket 
season  presently  consoled  him,  and  there  were  the  holidays 
to  look  forward  to,  and  the  annual  month  at  the  sea-side. 
At  the  time  George  left  Highgate  to  go  to  Cambridge 
Peggy  was  nearly  thirteen.  The  discipline  of  school  had 
somewhat  lessened  her  tyrannical  habits,  and  the  relations 
of  the  pair  were  now  reversed,  George  taking  the  lead  and 
Peggy  following  him  with  sisterly  admiration.  For  they 
were  in  all  respects  as  brother  and  sister. 

After  George  had  decided  in  consultation  with  the 
authorities  of  the  school  to  try  for  a  Trinity  scholarship, 
there  was  a  curious  contention  between  him  and  Mr. 
Richards,  Mrs.  Greenfield  taking  an  unwilling  part. 

Mr.  Richards  had  arrived  at  the  cottage  on  an  unexpected 
visit  just  before  George  was  due  at  Cambridge  for  the 
scholarship  examination.  To  the  boy's  utter  amazement 
he  made  a  strong  objection  to  the  course  proposed.  "I 
have  been  told,"  he  said,  "that  Trinity  is  the  college 
where  rich  men's  sons  go.  Why  do  you  fix  on  that  one  ? 
You  will  get  mixed  up  with  a  lot  of  idlers  who  do  nothing 
but  spend  money  and  waste  their  time,  and  you  will  learn 
to  play  instead  of  work,  and  very  likely  get  into  debt." 

George  had  some  difficulty  in  keeping  a  naturally  hasty 


THE  COTTAGE  AT   HIGHGATE.  7 

temper  from  asserting  itself.  **  There  are  some  six  hundred 
undergraduates  at  Trinity,"  he  said.  "  I  daresay  some  of 
them  are  as  you  say,  but  they  won't  be  my  friends.  I  shall 
be  a  scholar,  and,  of  course,  work  will  be  my  chief  object." 

*'  So  you  say  now,"  interrupted  Mr.  Richards. 

"  And  so  I  shall  say  in  a  year's  time  if  I  get  this  scholar- 
ship," returned  George,  hotly,  "  and  in  two  and  three  years' 
time.  Trinity  is  the  most  learned  college,  as  well  as  the 
largest,  and  if  I  can  belong  to  it,  I  will." 

"  You  had  better  leave  it  alone,"  said  Mr.  Richards, 
shortly,  "  and  try  somewhere  else.  You  are  the  son  of  a 
poor  woman,  and  I  know  what  it  is  when  a  young  man 
gets  among  a  set  of  idlers." 

George  could  not  trust  himself  to  answer,  and  left  the 
room.  He  went  up  to  his  bedroom,  and  spent  a  bitter 
half-hour  by  himself.  At  the  end  of  that  time  his  mother 
joined  him. 

"  George,  dear,  can't  you  do  as  Mr.  Richards  advises  you, 
and  try  at  some  other  college  ?  "  she  asked. 

George  turned  to  her.  "  What,  you  against  me  too, 
mother  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  that  showed  how  sore 
he  felt. 

"  No,  darling,  never  that,**  she  replied  gently,  "  but  he 
has  had  experience,  and  he  is  very  much  set  against  it.** 

"  Experience  !  "  echoed  George,  throwing  out  his  hands. 
"  What  is  his  experience  worth  in  such  a  matter  as  this  ? 
I  can  see  what  he  is  well  enough.  A  successful  business 
man,  no  doubt,  who  has  made  himself  what  he  is.  What 
standing  does  that  give  him  that  his  advice  should  be 
taken  against  that  of  the  Head,  and  all  my  friends  among 
the  masters  who  are  taking  such  a  kind  interest  in  my 
future?  And  what  do  his  objections  amount  to?**  he 
went  on  rapidly.  "  Just  this,  that  because  at  the  best  of  all 
the  colleges  there  are  some  men  who  are  there  to  amuse 


8  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

themselves  amongst  all  those  who  go  there  to  learn,  I  can't 
be  trusted  to  keep  my  head  and  stick  to  my  work.  Do  you 
know  me  as  little  as  that,  mother  ?  " 

"  No,  dear,  no,'*  replied  Mrs.  Greenfield.  "  But  cannot  you 
take  just  as  high  honours  at  another  college,  where  the  men 
are  more  of  your  own  position  in  life  ?  .He  says  you  can." 

"  He  seems  to  know  a  lot  about  it,"  said  George,  bitterly. 
"  Mother,  why  should  I  give  up  the  honour  of  talcing  a  part 
in  such  great  traditions,  if  I  can  earn  it, for  the  sake  of  another 
man's  whims — a  man  who  has  no  authority  over  me? 
Why,  one  of  the  greatest  scholars  Trinity  has  produced  was 
the  son  of  a  blacksmith,  and  one  of  her  greatest  masters 
was  the  son  of  a  carpenter.  Have  I  shown  myself  so  weak 
in  character  that  I  can't  live  in  a  place  where  there  are 
some  rich  men  without  giving  up  all  my  hopes  and 
ambitions  for  the  sake  of  aping  their  ways?  I  care 
nothing  about  Mr.  Richards's  mistrust  of  me,  but  it  is  hard 
to  find  that  you  share  it,  mother." 

**  Dear  George,  you  know  that  I  have  no  mistrust  of  you," 
said  Mrs.  Greenfield.  "  But  I  have  learnt  to-day  something 
that  I  did  not  know  before.  There  is  a  sum  of  money  set 
aside  for  your  education  if  you  should  go  to  the  University 
after  you  leave  school.  You  are  to  have  £150  a  year  as 
long  as  you  remain  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  and  after  that, 
whatever  is  left  out  of  a  thousand  pounds  is  to  be  given  to 
you  to  help  you  towards  any  occupation  you  may  wish  to 
take  up.  It  would  help  you  very  much,  but  it  is  within 
Mr.  Richards's  power  to  grant  it  or  withhold  it,  and  if  you 
do  not  follow  out  his  wishes  he  may  not  see  fit  to  let  you 
have  it" 

"  I  will  go  and  talk  to  him  about  that,"  said  George, 
impulsively,  and  he  ran  out  of  the  room.  Mrs.  Greenfield 
sat  down  by  the  window  and  left  the  boy  to  fight  his  own 
battle. 


THE  COTTAGE  AT  HIGHGATE.  g 

George,  with  his  head  raised,  entered  the  parlour,  where 
Mr.  Richards  sat  by  the  round  table. 

"  My  mother  has  just  told  me,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  you  are 
able  to  grant  me  some  money  to  help  me  through  the 
University.  Will  you  answer  me  one  question  ?  Was  that 
money  left  by  my  father  for  that  purpose  ?  " 

Mr.  Richards  looked  at  him  from  behind  half-closed 
eyelids. 

•*  Yes,"  he  said. 

*  It  won't  come  from  you  personally  ?  * 

•No." 

••  But  you  have  the  power  of  granting  it  or  withholding 
it  as  you  see  fit  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  so.** 

14  And  if  I  do  not  give  up  my  intention  of  trying 
to  get  into  the  college  I  have  chosen  you  will  withhold 
it?" 

**  I  don't  say  that  definitely.  But  1  should  consider  the 
matter  very  carefully." 

"  You  may  do  as  you  please  about  it,  sir,"  said  George, 
hotly.  "  I  can  do  without  the  money.  Our  decision — my 
mother's  and  mine — was  taken  under  advice  from  men  who 
understand  these  things,  and  understand  me  and  my  cir- 
cumstances, without  reference  to  it.  If  I  get  a  scholarship 
and  the  school  exhibition — with  those  and  the  money  my 
mother  can  allow  me — I  shall  have  enough  to  live  upon ; 
not  in  the  same  way  as  the  men  you  seem  to  have  heard 
about ;  but  I  am  going  to  Cambridge  to  work,  and  not  to 
play,  and  I  shall  have  as  much  as  I  want." 

Mr.  Richards  looked  at  the  boy  standing  before  him, 
flushed  and  excited,  but  full  of  resolve  and  self-confidence. 
A  careful  observer  might  have  noticed  a  certain  admiration 
in  his  gaze,  but  to  George  it  exhibited  nothing  but  baffled 
obstinacy. 


to 

"Then  you  have  decided  to  take  your  own  way  and 
ignore  my  advice,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  think  you  are  the  man  to  advise  me  upon  such 
a  question,"  said  George,  boldly,  the  dislike  that  had  grown 
during  his  boyhood  showing  itself  in  his  words  and  tone. 

Mr.  Richards  shifted  his  position.  "That's  as  may  be, 
young  man,"  he  said.  "  You  shall  have  my  decision  after 
I  have  learnt  the  result  of  this  examination.  Now,  with 
your  leave,  I  will  go  and  eat  my  lunch,  and  I  should  like 
to  talk  to  your  mother  alone  till  it  is  time  to  go  and  catch 
my  train." 

George's  resentment  flamed  up.  "  Why  do  you  try  and 
set  my  mother  against  me  ?  "  he  cried.  "  We  have  talked 
over  all  this,  and  she  will  be  as  proud  of  my  success,  if  I 
do  succeed,  as  I  shall  be  myself.  We  don't  ask  your  help. 
Who  are  you  ?  What  power  have  you  got  that  you  should 
come  between  my  mother  and  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Richards  brushed  past  him.  "  I  shan't  come  between 
you,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "  You  can  do  as  you  please  ;  **  and 
with  that  he  left  the  room. 

George  remained  in  the  little  parlour  until  Mr.  Richards 
had  left  the  house,  without  coming  in  again  or  calling  for 
him  to  say  good-bye.  He  stood  at  the  window,  looking 
out  into  the  garden,  seeing  nothing,  drumming  on  the  glass 
with  the  tassel  of  the  blind.  Thoughts  that  he  had  never 
had  before  passed  through  his  mind,  impalpable  suspicions, 
bitter  resentments.  His  hopes  for  the  future  and  his  happy 
confidence  in  the  integrity  of  his  purpose  were  darkened. 
The  world  was  still  a  fair  place  to  live  and  work  in,  but  a 
cloud  of  mistrust  had  obscured  its  brightness.  His  mind 
was  full  of  impatience  and  scorn,  and  blighting  fears  of  he 
knew  not  what.  It  was  the  blackest  half-hour  he  had  ever 
known. 

When  the  door  had  been  heard  to  close  behind  the  man 


THE  COTTAGE  AT  HIGHGATE.  u 

who  had  been  talking  in  secret  to  his  mother,  while  he 
stood  there  alone  and  unhappy,  Mrs.  Greenfield  came  into 
the  room.  "  Mother,"  he  cried,  turning  to  face  her,  "  tell 
me  who  this  man  is  and  what  hold  he  has  upon  you 
that  you  are  so  anxious  to  please  him  and  to  take  his 
advice." 

Mrs.  Greenfield  stopped  in  amazement.  She  had  come 
into  the  room  with  an  air  of  contentment  and  a  face  free 
from  care.  Her  expression  changed,  and  she  sank  into  a 
chair,  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

"  There  is  some  secret,"  said  George.  "  I  know  there  is. 
Your  whole  appearance  changes  when  I  ask  you  about  him. 
What  is  he  to  you,  that  you  and  he  should  conspire  together 
against  me  ?  " 

A  faint  colour  came  into  Mrs.  Greenfield's  pale  cheeks. 
"  You  have  no  right  to  say  that,  George,"  she  said.  She 
spoke  in  a  tone  that  George  had  never  heard  her  use 
before.  "There  is  no  conspiracy  against  you.  Do  you 
think  I  would  conspire  against  my  son  ?  You  are  making 
a  great  deal  out  of  a  very  little.  In  this  very  matter  that 
has  been  discussed  this  morning,  Mr.  Richards  has  offered 
his  advice  and  you  have  rejected  it.  I  am  glad  you  did 
so,  because  I  think  there  is  no  foundation  for  his  fears. 
How  could  he  have  a  hold  over  you,  or  over  me,  as  you 
say,  when  you,  a  boy  of  eighteen,  are  allowed  to  have  the 
last  word  on  a  matter  like  that  ?  " 

George  looked  at  her,  hah*  convinced.  "  Then  what  has 
he  been  talking  about  that  I  must  not  hear  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  We  spoke  of  the  money  that  he  has  in  trust  for  you," 
replied  Mrs.  Greenfield,  "  and  about  my  income,  of  which 
he  is  also  the  trustee,  and  about  other  things." 

"  Other  things  !  "  echoed  George,  his  suspicions  renewed. 
"What  other  things,  mother?** 

"That   I  cannot  tell  you,"  answered  Mrs.  Greenfield 


la  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  They  have  to  do  with  my  life  before  you  were  born,  and 
of  that  I  will  never  tell  you  of  my  own  free  will." 

She  spoke  with  no  little  vehemence  for  so  mild-mannered 
a  woman. 

"How  does  this  man  come  by  his  authority  over  us, 
mother?"  asked  George,  returning  to  the  suspicions  that 
filled  his  mind.  "  He  can  let  me  have  this  money  or  not 
as  he  wishes.  He  says  it  was  left  me  by  my  father.  Is 
that  true  ?  Has  he  got  control  of  your  money  beyond 
administering  it  for  you  ?  " 

"  George,  my  dear,"  said  his  mother,  quietly,  "  You 
must  not  throw  doubt  on  what  Mr.  Richards  tells  you. 
My  money  is  my  own,  and  he  has  no  power  over  it,  or  over 
me.  The  thousand  pounds  will  come  to  you  at  some  time, 
whatever  may  be  decided  with  regard  to  Trinity  College. 
He  has  the  power  of  withholding  it  now,  but  not  altogether. 
It  is  intended  to  give  you  a  start  in  life.  He  is  acting  as 
he  thinks  best,  and  he  is  not  your  enemy  as  you  seem  to 
regard  him." 

"  Answer  me  one  question,  mother,"  said  George.  "  Do 
you  like  and  trust  this  man  ?  " 

"  I  trust  him  implicitly." 

"  Do  you  like  him  ?  " 

'•'  No/'  tthr  said,  quietly. 


CHAPTER  It 

CAMBRIDGE   DATS. 

GEORGE  won  his  scholarship,  and  within  a  week  heard 
from  Mr.  Richards  that  a  sum  of  £"150  a  year  would  be 
paid  him  until  he  had  taken  his  degree,  when  the  balance 
that  remained  out  of  a  thousand  pounds  would  be  handed 
over  to  him.  Mr.  Richards  also  wished  him  success  in  his 
career,  and  made  no  further  mention  of  the  rich  idlers  who 
had  bulked  so  large  in  his  conceptions  of  the  society  of 
Trinity  College. 

The  climax  of  George's  years  of  school  life  came  on  his 
last  Speech  Day,  when,  as  a  young  man  of  nearly  nineteen, 
for  two  years  past  captain  of  the  School,  he  sat  blushing 
in  the  big  school-room,  while  the  headmaster  announced 
to  the  assembled  company  his  success  in  winning  a  Major 
Scholarship  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  the  first 
exhibition  from  the  school  itself.  It  had  been  a  good  year 
in  the  matter  of  prizes  and  scholarships  for  Highgate 
School.  Other  names  were  read  out  along  with  George's, 
but  none  so  often  as  his.  He  went  up  to  the  dais  again 
and  again,  and  carried  away  a  small  library  of  calf-bound 
books,  and  each  time  he  went  up  he  was  more  vociferously 
applauded  than  before,  for  his  schoolfellows  appreciated 
the  honours  he  had  gained  and  would  gain  for  them,  and 
he  had  carried  out  his  bat  for  120  in  the  match  against 
the  M.C.C.  the  day  before.  The  ladies  in  the  big  school- 
room looked  upon  him  graciously,  for  he  was  a  handsome 
fellow,  dark  and  tall,  and  well  set  up,  and  he  accepted  his 


14  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES, 

honours,  and  the  plaudits  that  accompanied  them,  with  a 
modest  composure  which  sat  very  well  on  him. 

And  in  the  very  place  in  the  back  of  the  room  where 
George  as  a  very  small  boy  had  first  imbibed  learning 
eleven  years  before,  sat  his  mother,  looking  on  at  his 
triumph  with  brimming  eyes.  She  knew  no  one  imme- 
diately around  her,  and  when  the  old  bishop  who  was 
giving  away  the  prizes  made  a  speech,  in  which  he  spoke 
of  the  pleasure  it  had  given  him  to  come  back  to  his  old 
school  and  to  see  its  traditions  so  worthily  maintained  on 
all  hands,  and  he  might  say  brilliantly  maintained  in  the 
case  of  his  young  friend  the  captain  of  the  school  (a  ringing 
outburst  of  cheers  and  clapping,  with  difficulty  quelled  by 
the  headmaster),  Mrs.  Greenfield  broke  down  and  cried 
softly  into  her  handkerchief  tears  of  pride  and  pleasure. 

And  after  the  speeches  were  over  George  broke  away  as 
soon  as  might  be  from  the  guests  amongst  whom  duty 
took  him  at  the  headmaster's  house,  and  ran  home,  just  as 
if  he  were  a  little  boy  still,  to  the  cottage,  where  he 
talked  over  the  events  of  the  day,  of  his  whole  school  life, 
and  of  the  new  life  that  was  opening  out  before  him, 
to  the  most  sympathetic  listener  in  the  world,  until  the 
clock  striking  one  reminded  them  that  it  was  long  past 
their  bed  time.  Amongst  other  surroundings  in  after- 
years  his  boyhood,  now  closing,  remained  to  George  as  a 
happy  memory,  for  he  had  known  the  full  sweetness  of 
home  life. 

George's  career  at  Cambridge  was  marked  by  the  success 
which  had  been  prophesied  for  him  during  his  school  days. 
His  success,  in  fact,  was  complete  and  triumphant.  He 
won  almost  every  prize  and  distinction  that  came  within 
the  course  of  reading  he  had  adopted,  and  finished  up  alone 
in  the  first  division  of  the  first  class  of  the  Classical  Tripos. 
In  his  third  year  he  got  into  the  University  Cricket  Eleven, 


CAMBRIDGE  DAYS.  15 

and  made  his  appearance  at  Lord's  in  the  match  against 
Oxford.  Mr.  Richards,  when  this  news  came  to  his  ears, 
might  perhaps  have  recalled  his  early  warning  against 
regarding  Cambridge  as  a  place  to  play  and  not  to  work 
in.  And,  indeed,  a  place  in  the  University  Eleven  does 
make  demands  both  on  the  purse  and  on  the  time  of  an 
undergraduate  who  attains  to  it.  But  as  regards  the 
former,  George's  prizes  and  the  sum  of  money  which  was 
paid  into  his  account  once  a  quarter  by  Mr.  Richards 
himself,  made  him  far  better  off  than  the  average  under- 
graduate, even  at  Trinity,  and,  as  far  as  his  work  went, 
his  First  Class  had  never  been  in  doubt,  it  being  the  general 
opinion  that  he  could  have  taken  it  in  his  second  year,  had  he 
been  so  disposed.  He  had  gone  through  a  thoroughly  good 
grounding  at  High  gate  School,  under  the  teaching  of  the 
headmaster,  himself  a  fine  scholar,  and  he  had  read  dili- 
gently and  continuously  at  Cambridge.  There  had  scarcely 
been  a  working  day  in  his  life,  either  at  school  or  at  college, 
on  which  he  could  look  back  as  wasted,  as  against  so  many 
days  and  weeks  and  months  that  most  men  of  his  age  can 
count  as  lost. 

On  a  deliberate  determination  he  widened  his  interests 
during  his  third  year,  and  lessened  his  hours  of  reading  for 
his  Tripos  work.  He  spoke  often  at  the  Union,  and 
attained  in  due  course  the  president's  chair.  He  was  an 
extreme  Radical  in  those  early  days.  He  was  accustomed 
to  speak  of  himself  as  a  man  of  the  people,  and  the  con- 
trast between  his  finely  cut  face,  his  graceful  and  noble 
bearing,  and  the  refinement  of  his  speech  on  the  one  hand, 
and  his  asserted  claim  to  lowly  birth  on  the  other,  was  not 
a  little  curious.  In  the  generous  republic  of  youth,  birth, 
high  or  low,  is  of  little  account,  and  no  more  popular  man 
than  George  Greenfield  walked  the  streets  and  courts  ol 
Cambridge  during  those  happy  undergraduate  days. 


16  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

In  his  fourth  year  he  left  the  paths  of  classical  learning 
and  read  for  the  History  Tripos.  He  was  told  that  his 
Fellowship  was  in  danger,  but  he  had  wider  aims  than 
the  cloistered  scholastic  career,  and  was  even  in  those  early 
days  casting  a  diffident  eye  towards  Parliament.  And 
when  the  time  came  he  sat  for  his  Fellowship,  as  the 
phrase  goes,  and  duly  won  it. 

During  the  four  years  of  his  University  career  it  may  be 
supposed  that  George  was  not  without  occasional  self- 
searchings  on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Richards  and  his  connec- 
tion with  his  own  and  his  mother's  history.  His  life  was 
so  brimful  of  eagerness  and  interest,  and  his  home,  when 
he  visited  it,  so  quiet,  so  happy,  so  normal  in  every  way, 
that  the  questions  he  sometimes  put  to  himself  troubled  his 
mind  at  rare  intervals,  and  even  then  assumed  no  great 
importance. 

But  there  were  times  when  he  asked  himself  from  whence 
he  had  sprung ;  what  kind  of  a  man  was  the  father  of 
whom  he  was  forbidden  to  speak  ;  what  bad  thing  had  he 
done  that  his  gentle  mother  could  not  bear  to  hear  him 
mentioned  without  fear  and  shrinking ;  who  was  the  dark- 
browed  arrogant  man  who  wielded  such  strange  yet 
limited  power  over  the  fortunes  of  their  little  household 
and  his  own  career ;  what  connection  had  he  with  the  tale 
of  shame  which  had  clouded  his  mother's  early  life ;  and 
would  the  mystery  of  that  tale  and  all  that  hung  on  it 
ever  pass  the  lips  of  the  two  who  alone  possessed  the  key 
to  it,  and  be  revealed  to  him  ? 

From  his  mother  he  felt  he  should  never  hear  it. 
Perceiving,  as  he  had  first  done  in  his  boyhood,  what 
trouble  the  bare  mention  of  the  past  brought  to  her,  what 
distress  she  exhibited  at  any  inquiries  concerning  it,  and 
what  alarm  at  the  possibility  of  his  mind  running  upon 
the  subject,  he  had  long  since  resolved  that  no  word  or 


CAMBRIDGE  DAYS.  17 

sign  from  him  should  rouse  uneasiness  in  her;  that  he 
would  return  the  love  and  devotion  she  showed  towards 
him  with  unquestioning  confidence,  and  never  distress  her 
by  any  reference  to  what  she  wished  to  conceal.  And  he 
was  at  ease  in  this  decision.  He  knew  her  as  few  sons 
know  their  mothers,  and  was  entirely  satisfied  that  nothing 
he  might  learn  concerning  her  could  lessen  his  love  and 
respect.  Whoever  had  sinned  in  the  past,  it  could  not  have 
been  she.  But  he  judged  that  her  fear  of  a  discovery  on 
his  part  was  on  account  of  this  very  possibility — that  a 
cloud  might  rise  between  them — and  being  convinced  that 
that  fear  was  groundless,  he  told  himself  that  it  was  from 
Richards  he  would  drag  the  secret,  and  that  he  would  be 
justified  in  doing  so,  both  for  his  own  sake,  and  because,  if 
he  knew  her  story,  he  could  better  watch  over  her  and  shield 
her  from  any  ill  effect  that  might  still  result  from  it.  If  he 
had  had  a  shadow  of  doubt  of  her  perfect  integrity,  he  might 
have  chosen  to  put  the  whole  subject  out  of  his  mind  as  far 
as  possible  and  probe  no  further,  for  fear  of  destroying  the 
perfection  of  their  relationship;  but  in  that  case  the 
relationship  would  not  have  been  perfect,  and,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  felt  no  such  doubt.  And  so  the  end  of  his 
cogitations  was  always  the  same.  At  some  time  which  he 
would  choose  himself  he  would  come  to  close  quarters  with 
Mr.  Richards,  put  certain  questions  to  him,  and  demand  an 
answer  to  them.  He  thought  it  possible  that  his  attitude 
might  somewhat  surprise  that  gentleman,  and  he  smiled 
grimly  within  himself  as  he  pictured  the  interview.  The 
man  had  treated  him  hitherto  as  a  person  of  small 
account,  had  exercised  what  authority  circumstances  had 
placed  in  his  hands  without  tact,  and  had  ridden  rough- 
shod over  his  prejudices  and  aspirations.  He  would  find 
himself  on  that  day  that  was  coming  met  by  an  antagonist 
with  a  determination  and  self-confidence  equal  to  his  own 

H.M.  C 


i8  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

and  if  he  should  essay  to  take  up  his  old  ground  of  some- 
what contemptuous  superiority  he  would  be  warned  off  it 
with  no  ambiguity  of  language. 

The  interview  which  George  definitely  promised  himself, 
but  for  which  he  was  in  no  hurry,  delayed  itself  during  the 
whole  of  his  time  at  Cambridge.  For  two  years  he  never 
set  eyes  on  Mr.  Richards,  whose  visits  to  Highgate  took 
place  during  term  time.  Then  he  met  him  unexpectedly 
during  a  short  "  exeat,"  but  was  unprepared ;  and  he  was 
treated  with  greater  respect  than  formerly,  so  that  his 
dislike  of  the  man  slumbered.  Again,  a  year  later  they 
met,  and  George  surveyed  the  ground  with  an  eye  for 
possible  openings,  but  none  came.  Mr.  Richards  behaved 
almost  as  if  he  had  divined  what  was  in  his  mind,  and 
seemed  to  shirk  the  possibility  of  finding  himself  alone 
with  him.  He  asked  many  questions  about  George's  life 
and  work  at  the  University,  not  in  the  hectoring  tone  he. 
had  employed  towards  him  in  his  school  days,  but  with  a 
show  of  genuine  interest,  almost  with  diffidence.  GeorgeY 
antagonism  was  disarmed  for  the  time  being.  His  mothei 
seemed  to  be  more  at  ease  than  formerly  in  her  visitor's 
presence,  and  was  plainly  relieved  at  the  almost  friendly 
tone  that  each  used  towards  the  other.  After  all,  the 
fellow  was  scarcely  worth  thinking  about.  His  own  life 
was  so  full  that  there  was  little  room  in  it  for  dreams  or 
conjectures.  Probably  until  this  meeting  the  fact  of  Mr. 
Richards's  existence  had  not  been  present  to  his  mind  for 
weeks  past.  The  destined  interview  could  wait,  but  it 
should  take  place  some  day.  And  gradually  the  decision 
formed  itself  in  George's  mind  that  that  day  should  be 
when  he  had  left  his  University  career  behind  him  and  was 
ready  to  make  his  first  plunge  into  the  work  of  the  world. 
So  he  went  back  to  Cambridge  for  his  last  year,  and 
having  made  his  decision,  was  less  troubled  with  doubts 


CAMBRIDGE  DAYS.  19 

and  questionings  than  he  had  ever  been  since  the  convic- 
tion had  forced  itself  upon  him  that  his  early  history  was 
not  that  of  other  young  men. 

Mrs.  Greenfield,  proud  though  she  was  of  her  son's  career, 
could  only  be  induced  to  pay  him  one  visit  at  Cambridge. 
That  was  at  the  end  of  his  fourth  year,  and  Peggy,  now 
a  slim  schoolgirl  of  seventeen,  about  to  embark  on  a 
"  finishing  "  course  at  Dresden  and  Paris,  came  too.  For 
one  glorious  June  day,  during  the  height  of  what  are 
known  as  the  May  week  festivities,  she  revelled  in  the 
delights  of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  in  England, 
and,  it  must  be  confessed,  showed  no  displeasure  at  the  not 
very  closely  concealed  admiration  of  the  undergraduate 
world.  It  was  unfortunate  that  George  had  to  be  in 
attendance  at  Fenner's,  where  the  University  was  engaged 
in  a  struggle  with  the  crack  cricket  county,  but  he  had 
finished  his  innings  the  day  before  and  was  not  likely  to 
be  called  upon  to  field  until  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 
He  met  them  at  the  station  early  in  the  morning,  showed 
them  the  cream  of  the  colleges,  rowed  them  up  and  down 
the  "  Backs,"  took  them  round  the  Trinity  Fellows'  garden, 
and  then  to  his  rooms  in  a  corner  of  the  Great  Court  for  a 
rest  and  lunch. 

Peggy  was  enchanted  with  everything,  and  thought 
Cambridge  the  most  delightful  place  she  had  ever  seen. 
She  poked  into  every  corner  of  George's  large  low-ceilinged 
southward-facing  room,  pleasant  enough,  with  its  windows 
open  and  the  scent  of  wallflowers  stealing  in  from  the  bed 
beneath  them,  rummaged  amongst  his  most  sacred  papers, 
and  arrayed  herself  in  his  bachelor's  gown  and  cap. 

"  I  have  asked  a  friend  to  lunch,"  said  George.  M  He 
went  down  two  years  ago,  but  he  has  come  up  for  the  day. 
His  name  is  Guy  Bertram." 

"  George,  dear,  why  did  you  ask  any  one  ?  **  exclaimed 

c  a 


20  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

Mrs.  Greenfield  with  apparently  unnecessary  alarm.  "  Can- 
not we  just  be  together  ?  " 

*'  Too  late  now,  mother,  I'm  afraid.  I  see  him  coming 
across  the  Court  But  you  are  sure  to  like  him.  Everybody 
does." 

"  You  live  so  much  out  of  the  world,  mother  darling," 
said  Peggy,  bending  over  to  kiss  her,  "  that  every  stranger 
frightens  you.  Now  I  love  meeting  new  faces." 

Guy  Bertram,  who  came  into  the  room  at  that  moment, 
presented  an  appearance  that  was  eminently  attractive. 
He  was  fair-faced  and  fair-haired,  and  possessed  of  an  easy 
smiling  manner  that  had  gained  him  many  friends  among 
members  of  his  own  sex  and  numerous  admirers  in  the 
ranks  of  the  other.  He  immediately  made  himself  entirely 
at  home  and  behaved  as  if  he  had  known  George's  "  people  " 
all  his  life. 

The  luncheon,  with  its  immemorial  May  week  menu  of 
mayonnaise,  cold  lamb,  a  creme  brulee,  strawberries  and 
cream,  and  champagne  cup,  struck  Mrs.  Greenfield  as 
extravagant,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  presence  of  a  young 
man  so  immaculately  got  up  and  so  very  much  at  his  ease 
as  Mr.  Guy  Bertram  seemed  to  make  her  strangely  ill  at 
ease.  To  Peggy  it  all  appeared  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  and  the  most  delightful.  It  was  life  as  it  should  be, 
and  as  it  would  be,  when  once  the  exigencies  of  lessons 
and  drillings  were  over,  and  she  had  been  duly  "  finished  " 
at  Dresden  and  Paris.  Guy  Bertram,  with  the  experience 
of  two  years  of  life  in  the  great  world  at  his  back,  showed 
himself  none  the  less  good-natured  in  calling  forth  and 
responding  to  the  sallies  of  this  happy  schoolgirl,  and 
addressed  himself  no  more  to  his  host  or  his  host's  mother 
than  the  usages  of  politeness  demanded.  He  exhibited 
himself  in  an  unselfish  light  when  the  afternoon's  pro- 
gramme was  discussed,  and  expressed  himself  willing  to 


CAMBRIDGE  DAYS.  ai 

take  the  burden  of  their  entertainment  on  his  own  unaided 
shoulders.  Mrs.  Greenfield  was  left  in  George's  room  to 
rest  while  the  three  went  down  to  Fenner's.  George,  being 
summoned  into  the  field  sooner  than  he  had  expected, 
owing  to  the  unfortunate  collapse  of  the  tail  of  the 
Cambridge  batsmen,  left  Peggy  to  the  protection  of  his 
friend,  who  presently  discovered  that  their  seats  were 
rather  hard  and  uncomfortable,  and  suggested  a  perambu- 
lation, during  which  he  acknowledged  the  greetings  of 
several  young  men  of  unimpeachable  fashion,  none  of 
whom  displayed  any  unwillingness  to  catch  his  eye. 

Chartering  a  fly  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  they  picked 
up  Mrs.  Greenfield  at  Trinity,  and  drove  down  to  Ditton 
Paddock,  where  there  were  more  perambulations  in  a 
still  denser  crowd,  and  Peggy's  black  eyes  and  graceful 
girlish  figure  attracted  still  further  attention,  of  which,  it 
may  be  said,  she  affected  to  be  entirely  unconscious.  Here 
she  was  taught  by  her  guide  to  distinguish  the  different 
colours  of  the  boats'  crews  paddling  up  to  the  starting 
point,  and  induced  under  considerable  pressure  to  shout 
success  to  Third  Trinity,  as  Guy's  old  schoolfellows  chased 
the  boat  in  front  of  them  round  Ditton  Corner  and  up  the 
Long  Reach.  It  was  First  Trinity  they  were  trying  to 
bump,  and  George  told  her  afterwards  that  she  ought  to 
have  shouted  "  First "  if  she  must  shout  at  all,  but  she 
explained  that  Mr.  Bertram  had  told  her  that  she  ought  to 
encourage  a  crew  from  Trinity,  as  it  was  George's  college, 
and  had  selected  that  one  as  deserving  of  her  good  wishes. 

A  little  dinner  in  George's  room  ended  the  day.  Guy 
Bertram  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  dine  elsewhere,  and 
seemed  disposed  to  resent  the  action  of  his  prospective  host 
in  having  invited  him  ;  but  he  was  not  encouraged  to  carry 
out  his  half-expressed  intention  of  letting  his  engagement 
slide,  and  took  himself  off,  leaving  a  pleasant  impression  of 


M  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

i 

unaffected  good  nature  behind  him.  George  saw  them  off 
in  the  evening,  as  tired  and  as  happy  as  possible,  and  Peggy 
never  ceased  talking  of  her  day  in  Cambridge  or  of  the 
oracular  utterances  of  Mr.  Bertram,  until  the  delights  of  the 
opera  at  Dresden  and  the  uniforms  of  the  German  soldiery 
somewhat  effaced  the  older  impressions. 

A  week  later  George  had  packed  up  his  possessions  and 
transferred  himself  once  more  to  the  cottage  at  Highgate. 
He  was  still,  in  many  respects,  the  boy  of  four  years 
before  who  had  bearded  Mr.  Richards  on  the  subject  of 
entering  at  Trinity  College,  where  he  had  since  so  amply 
justified  his  own  determination  to  succeed.  He  was  as 
loving  and  as  careful  as  ever  of  his  mother,  and  as 
proud  as  ever  of  his  old  school,  which  had  by  this  time 
exalted  him  into  a  hero.  He  would  go  down  to  the  field  and 
coach  the  budding  cricketers  at  the  nets,  and  a  group  of  boys 
would  stand  round  to  see  him  bat,  while  others  would 
vie  for  the  honour  of  bowling  to  him.  He  would  go  and 
smoke  of  an  evening  with  the  younger  masters  at  their 
lodgings.  The  stern  headmaster  himself  had  no  terrors 
for  him,  and  small  boys  stood  aghast  as  they  saw  him  walk 
down  from  the  school  to  the  schoolhouse  engaged  in 
friendly  conversation  with  that  unapproachable  dignitary. 
At  home  he  was  just  as  simple  and  contented  in  his  habits 
as  before,  but  his  mother  could  hardly  help  realising  that  he 
was  on  his  way  to  larger  spheres  of  action  than  would  be 
embraced  in  that  simple  cottage,  and  that  attainments  such 
as  his  could  not  be  confined  to  the  quiet  back-water  that 
eddied  among  the  trees  and  lanes  of  Highgate,  while  the 
thronging  interests  and  hazards  of  active  life  called  to  him 
from  the  great  city  to  plunge  into  the  stream.  For  the 
whole  summer  he  stayed  with  her,  going  away  for  a  few 
days  now  and  then  to  play  cricket,  and  rejoiced  her  heart  by 
asking  her  to  go  to  Norway  with  him  in  September,  for 


CAMBRIDGE  DAYS.  23 

which  month  he  had  taken  a  rod  on  a  salmon  river.  She 
refused.  She  saw  that  his  life  would  take  him  into  places 
and  scenes  where  she  could  not  follow  him,  and  preferred  to 
make  the  break  then,  of  her  own  choice,  rather  than  be 
forced  to  it  later  on.  She  was  content  to  live  her  retired 
life,  sunning  herself  in  the  reflection  of  his  successes,  and 
her  instinct  told  her  that  he  would  be  grateful  to  her  after- 
wards for  keeping  her  quiet  home  for  him,  apart  from 
the  turmoil  of  the  great  world.  For  she  knew  that  she  had 
succeeded  in  making  his  childhood  and  youth  in  that  same 
home  happy,  and  that  he  would  always  look  back  upon 
them  with  gratitude  and  affection.  And  what  could  she 
want  more  than  that  from  a  son  who  still  loved  her  fondly, 
but  had  got  far  beyond  the  need  of  her  guidance  and 
protection  ? 

One  evening,  a  week  or  so  after  he  had  settled  himself  at 
the  cottage  at  Highgate  for  the  rest  of  the  summer,  George 
said  to  his  mother,  "  And  when  are  we  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  our  friend  Mr.  Richards  again  ?  " 

Mrs.  Greenfield's  face  underwent  the  instant  change 
which  her  son  had  learnt  to  connect  with  every  mention 
of  the  man  who  stood  mysteriously  in  the  dark  rooms  of  her 
life  and  forbade  her  to  shut  the  door  on  their  secrets.  It 
was  in  the  evening.  She  had  been  sitting  working  at  the 
table,  chatting  intermittently  with  George,  who  was  looking 
through  a  paper  by  the  window.  Her  expression  had  been 
peaceful  an'd  contented.  Now  suddenly  she  was  alert,  dis- 
tressed. George  affected  not  to  notice  the  change,  though 
it  filled  him  with  resentment  against  the  cause  of  it. 

M I  want  to  settle  up  this  money  business,"  he  made  haste 
to  say.  "  I  shall  be  going  about  later,  and  may  miss  him. 
I  might  go  up  to  Glasgow  and  see  him  on  my  way  to 
Norway  if  he  is  not  likely  to  be  coming  here  soon." 

**  It  would  be  a  good  deal  out  of  your  way,"  she  said, 


24  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

trying  to  speak  in  level  tones,  "and  Mr.  Richards  would 
come  here  if  I  asked  him.  Or  he  could  send  you  the 
money.  The  matter  is  quite  settled,  and  there  is  nothing  to 
discuss." 

George  hardly  knew  what  to  reply.  He  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  a  decisive  interview  with  Mr.  Richards,  but  he 
did  not  wish  his  mother  to  divine  his  intention ;  and  yet 
he  could  not  approach  him  unless  it  was  through  her.  He 
did  not  even  know  where  to  find  him. 

"  There  is  no  particular  hurry,"  he  said.  "  But  I  might 
write  to  him.  Will  you  give  me  his  address,  mother  ?  " 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  Mrs.  Greenfield  complied  with 
his  request  at  once.  She  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote : 

"R.  RICHARDS,  ESQ., 

c/o.  Messrs.  McDougall  &  Co., 

10,  Wyngate  Street, 

Glasgow.* 

George  read  it  with  some  curiosity.  '*  What  particular 
business  were  Messrs.  McDougall  &  Co.  engaged  in  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  I  believe  they  are  insurance  brokers,"  she  replied.  "But 
I  do  not  know." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  George,  folding  up  the  paper 
and  putting  it  into  his  pocket-book.  **I  will  write  to 
Mr.  Richards.* 


CHAPTER  ID. 

SOME  LETTERS  AND  AN  INTERVIEW. 

THE  correspondence  between  George  and  Mr.  Richards 
was  so  tersely  expressed  that  it  may  as  well  be  given  in 
fulL  George  wrote  as  follows : 

"DEAR  MR.  RICHARDS, 

"  My  time  at  Cambridge  has  come  to  an  end,  and  I 
intend  to  take  rooms  in  the  Temple  about  October  next, 
and  read  for  the  Bar.  The  time  has  now  come,  according  to 
the  instructions  I  understand  you  to  have  received  from  my 
father,  for  you  to  put  into  my  hands  what  is  left  of  the 
sum  of  money  set  aside  for  my  education  and  start  in  life. 
If  you  are  intending  to  come  to  London  within  the  next 
month  I  should  like  to  meet  you  at  any  place  which  you 
may  appoint,  not  in  Highgate,  so  that  we  may  settle  up  our 
affairs.  I  also  wish  to  have  a  conversation  with  you  upon 
other  matters,  and  I  do  not  want  my  mother  to  be  worried 
any  further  with  what  I  am  now  quite  old  enough  to  take 
upon  my  own  shoulders.  I  therefore  ask  you  to  settle  a 
time  and  place  at  "which  we  can  meet,  and  to  say  nothing 
to  her  of  our  interview. 

*I  am, 

"Yours  truly, 

"GEORGE  GREENFIELD." 

To  this  Mr.  Richards  replied  after  a  week's  interval  :— 

"DEAR  GEORGE, 

"  I  enclose  cheque  for  £"400,  with  which  you  are  at 
liberty  to  do  what  you  please.  There  is  nothing  more  to 


26  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

settle  between  us,  and  I  can  see  no  use  in  the  interview  you 
propose.    Please  send  receipt  for  cheque. 

14  Yours  truly, 

««R.  RICHARDS." 
George  wrote  the  same  day : 

**DEAR  MR.  RICHARDS, 

"  I  enclose  a  formal  receipt  for  the  cheque  you  were 
good  enough  to  send  me. 

"  The  interview  I  propose  is  for  my  own  satisfaction,  and 
I  must  press  for  it.  I  shall  be  in  my  rooms  in  the  Temple 
at  the  beginning  of  October,  and  if  you  are  likely  to  be  in 
London  before  the  end  of  that  month,  we  can  meet  there. 
If  not,  I  will  call  on  you  in  Glasgow  about  the  5th  or  6th 
of  September,  when  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  Norway,  or 
at  the  end  of  the  month,  on  my  return.  Kindly  let  me 
know  which  of  these  arrangements  will  suit  you  best. 

**  Yours  truly, 

"GEORGE  GREENFIELD." 

Mr.  Richards  again  took  some  days  to  reply,  and  when 
he  did  his  letter  was  a  curt  proposal  for  an  appointment 
in  London  on  a  date  early  in  October. 

"  That  is  the  end  of  the  preliminary  round,"  said  George 
to  himself,  as  he  sealed  up  his  acceptance.  Then  he 
succeeded  in  emptying  his  mind  of  the  subject  for  nearly 
three  months,  during  which  he  enjoyed  himself  to  his 
heart's  content,  standing  as  he  did  at  that  enviable  pause 
in  a  young  man's  life  when,  with  a  clean  well-ordered 
youth  behind  him,  he  looks  forward  with  hope  and 
determination  to  the  work  in  which  his  life  is  to  be 
spent. 

At  the  end  of  September  he  was  settled  in  his  chambers, 
embarked  on  the  struggle  which  was  to  lead  him,  he  hoped, 
to  fame  and  fortune.  His  time  was  fully  occupied  between 


SOME   LETTERS  AND  AN   INTERVIEW.     27 

his  legal  studies  and  the  political  journalism  which  had 
come  to  him  almost  unsought,  so  clear  were  his  views  and 
so  clever  his  pen,  and  he  climbed  the  hill  upon  the  top  of 
which  stood  Highgate  and  his  mother's  cottage  only  when 
the  end  of  the  week  put  an  end  to  the  constant  occupations 
of  his  working  hours. 

The  appointed  day  came  for  his  interview  with  Mr. 
Richards.  That  gentleman  came  to  him  early  in  the 
morning,  and  in  no  very  amiable  mood. 

"  Now  then,"  he  said,  roughly,  as  he  entered  the  room, 
M  what  is  it  you  have  brought  me  all  the  way  from  Scotland 
to  say  ?  "  and  vouchsafed  no  further  greeting. 

"  I  had  no  wish  to  bring  you  all  the  way  from  Scotland, 
Mr.  Richards,"  replied  George.  "  I  offered  to  come  to  you 
in  Glasgow." 

Mr.  Richards  grunted. 

"  As  you  chose  to  come  to  me,"  pursued  George,  coolly, 
44 1  won't  offer  any  apology.  Will  you  have  some  breakfast  ? 
It  can  be  ready  in  ten  minutes." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  other,  shortly,  depositing  his 
rug  and  a  small  travelling  bag  on  the  sofa  and  taking  a 
seat  at  the  table.  "  I  have  got  just  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
spare,  so  say  what  you  have  got  to  say  and  get  it  over." 

"  What  I  have  got  to  say  will  take  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,"  replied  George.  "  It  looks  as  if  I  should  have 
to  come  to  you  in  Glasgow  after  all." 

Richards  threw  a  look  at  him.  "Well,  don't  waste 
time,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you  want  ?  ** 

"You  know  very  well  what  I  want,  sir,**  said  George. 
*  I  want  to  know  who  my  father  was.  I  want  to  know  the 
secret  which  has  troubled  my  mother  ever  since  I  was  born, 
and  with  which  you  are  connected  in  some  way.  I  want 
to  know  who  you  are  and  by  what  right  you  interfere  in 
what  concerns  her  and  me  alone.  I  wan 1** 


28  THE   HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  Come  now,"  interrupted  the  other,  "  have  I  interfered 
in  your  affairs  ?  Have  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  George,  boldly ;  "  you  tried  to  stop  me  going 
to  Trinity." 

"  But  you  went,  and  I  paid  you  your  allowance  as 
regular  as  clockwork,  although  I  could  have  stopped  you  if 
I  had  been  minded  to." 

"Exactly  so.  You  could  have  stopped  me  if  you  had 
been  minded  to.  I  want  to  know  by  what  right." 

"  Then  you  won't  know.  And  when  I  say  I  could  have 
stopped  you,  of  course  I  couldn't.  I  could  only  have  held 
back  your  money.  I  didn't  do  so,  as  I  say,  and  I  certainly 
haven't  interfered  with  you  in  any  way  since,  and  don't 
intend  to.  Don't  interfere  with  me." 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Richards,"  said  George,  **  when  we  last 
came  to  close  quarters  I  was  a  boy,  and  you  took  advantage 
of  that  fact  to  talk  to  me  in  a  way  I  resented.  Now  I  am 
a  man,  we  meet  on  equal  terms,  and  I  simply  won't  put  up 
with  it." 

"You've  got  me  down  here,"  retorted  Richards,  with 
some  excitement,  "and  you  put  a  lot  of  questions  to  me 
which  I  won't  answer." 

"Then  why  did  you  come?"  George  flashed  at  him. 
"  You  knew  perfectly  well  what  I  was  going  to  ask  you. 
Why  did  you  come  ?  " 

Mr.  Richards  was  reduced  to  a  sulky  silence,  which 
seemed  hardly  warranted  by  so  simple  a  question.  George 
took  his  advantage  without  quite  understanding  how  he 
had  gained  it. 

"  You  had  better  recognise  that  you  have  a  man  to  deal, 
with  now,"  he  said,  "  and  also  that  I  have  a  right  to  expect 
an  answer  to  the  questions  I  am  asking  you." 

"I  don't  admit  that,"  said  Mr.  Richards,  but  in  a 
vastly  more  conciliatory  tone  than  he  had  hitherto  employed. 


SOME  LETTERS  AND  AN   INTERVIEW.     29 

"  And  why  do  you  come  to  me  ?  Why  don't  you  ask  your 
mother  what  you  want  to  know  ?  *' 

"You  are  playing  with  me,  Mr.  Richards,**  said  George. 
**  I  know,  or,  if  you  like,  I  guess,  that  my  mother  fears  an 
estrangement  if  I  learn  what  I  mean  to  learn.  I  ask  you 
because  I  know  that  nothing  I  can  learn  can  make  any 
difference  in  my  love  for  her." 

"  You  ask  me,"  put  in  Mr.  Richards  with  a  grim  smile, 
"  because  you  know  she  would  not  tell  you." 

"  You  can  put  it  in  that  way  if  you  like.  At  any  rate,  I 
do  ask  you.  Who  was  my  father,  and  what  did  he  do  that 
his  name  must  never  be  mentioned  between  my  mother 
and  me  ? " 

Mr.  Richards  sat  for  a  moment  silent.  Then  he  said  with 
as  near  an  approach  to  frankness  as  his  gruff  manner  would 
admit,  "  I  can't  answer  that  question,  George.  At  least  I 
can't  answer  it  now.  There  may  come  a  time  when  I  can 
tell  you  something,  but " 

"  I  want  to  know  now,"  interrupted  George,  impatiently. 
"  I  have  had  enough  of  this  mystery,  which  is  shadowing  and 
in  some  ways  spoiling  my  mother's  life.  I  am  old  enough 
now,  more  than  old  enough,  to  take  her  burden  on  my 
shoulders.  What  is  it  that  is  troubling  her  ?  " 

"I  can  tell  you  that,"  said  Richards  decisively.  "There 
is  nothing  troubling  her  at  all  except  the  fear  that  you  may 
do  what  you  are  trying  to  do  now,  and  find  out  her  secret." 

"  That  isn't  true,"  said  George. 

Richards's  brow  darkened  at  once.  "  I  don't  take  such 
words  from  any  man,"  he  said. 

"  You'll  take  what  you're  very  ready  to  give,  and  that  is 
plain-speaking,"  said  George.  "  Why  is  it  that  at  the  very 
mention  of  your  name  her  whole  attitude  changes  ?  Why 
is  it  that  for  days  before  and  after  your  visits  she  loses  her 
tranquillity  and  becomes  anxious  and  worried  ?  You  may 


$o  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERR1LEES. 

not  know  these  things.  I  have  known  them  ever  since  I  was 
a  child." 

"  You  are  making  too  much  of  it.  Your  mother  went 
through  a  deal  of  trouble  in  her  early  life,  and  whenever  she 
sees  me  it  brings  it  to  her  mind.  I'm  sorry  for  it ;  but  I 
can't  help  it.  And  she  doesn't  like  me.  I  can't  help  that 
either.  I  don't  lay  myself  out  to  be  liked." 

*'  Oh,  it's  something  more  than  that.  It  is  dread.  She 
fears  something." 

"  I've  told  you  what  she  fears,  and,  as  true  as  I'm  here,  it 
is  that  and  nothing  else.  What  is  past  is  over  and  done 
with.  It  won't  trouble  her  again." 

"  Well,  take  it  at  that,  then.  She  fears  my  discovering 
the  past,  because  she  thinks  it  may  part  us.  If  I  can  go  and 
say  to  her,  '  I  know  your  secret,  and  now  nothing  can  ever 
come  between  us,'  she  will  get  rid  of  the  shadow  once  and 
for  all." 

"  And  so  you  come  to  me  and  ask  me  to  give  away  your 
mother's  secrets  behind  her  back.  Is  that  what  you  call 
honourable  conduct,  Mr.  George  Greenfield  ?  " 

"I  don't  come  to  you  for  a  lesson  in  honour,  Mr.  Richards. 
I  want  the  truth  out  of  you." 

"You'll  get  nothing  out  of  me  but  what  I  choose  to  tell 
you.  And  you  may  take  this  from  me.  If  I  were  to  tell 
you  everything  it  would  not  relieve  your  mother  at  all. 
Leave  things  as  they  are.  She's  happier  now  than  she 
could  ever  have  expected  to  be.  You  are  not  doing  her  any 
good  by  trying  to  drag  the  past  to  light." 

"  Very  well  then,  we'll  leave  that  point.  But  my  con- 
victions on  it  are  unchanged.  Now  I  ask  on  my  own 
account.  Who  was  my  father?  It  is  intolerable  that  a 
man  of  my  age  should  be  kept  in  ignorance  like  a  child.  I 
have  a  right  to  know." 

44  You  have  a  right  to  ask,  perhaps.    But  the  person  you 


SOME  LETTERS  AND  AN   INTERVIEW.     31 

must  ask  is  your  mother.  If  she  chooses  to  keep  you  in 
ignorance,  you  must  put  up  with  it.  You've  got  no  right 
whatever  to  expect  to  hear  anything  from  me." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  are  not  quite  so  irre- 
sponsible as  all  that.  You  have  got  the  management  of  my 
mother's  income  entirely  in  your  hands.  Who  gave  you 
that  trust  ?  How  have  you  exercised  it  ?  Have  we  been  de- 
pendent on  your  charity  for  the  last  twenty  years,  or  does 
the  money  belong  to  my  mother  ?  " 

"  It  belongs  to  her,  of  course.  I  make  the  best  use  of  it 
I  can  for  her.  Do  you  accuse  me  of  behaving  dishonestly 
about  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  accuse  you  of  anything.  I  simply  don't  know 
anything  about  you.  You  may  be  doing  the  best  you  can 
for  her,  or  you  may  not.  You  have  got  to  satisfy  me  on 
that  point." 

Mr.  Richards  rose.  "  I've  put  up  with  enough,"  he  said, 
angrily.  "  And  now  I'm  going.  I'll  tell  you  nothing,  and 
you  can  do  what  you  like." 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do,"  replied  George.  "  I 
shall  put  the  matter  into  the  hands  of  a  solicitor,  and  I 
shall  instruct  him  to  find  out  all  he  can  about  you." 

Mr.  Richards  faced  round  with  a  'dark  look  on  his 
face.  "  That's  a  pretty  thing  to  hear  from  you  to  me," 
he  said. 

"I  daresay  it  surprises  you,"  returned  George.  "You 
have  been  used  to  treating  me  as  a  person  of  no  account 
whatever  for  a  good  many  years.  It  must  be  a  shock  to 
you  to  discover  that  the  time  for  that  treatment  has 
gone  by." 

"  Is  it  to  be  war  between  us  ?  **  asked  Richards,  with 
a  penetrating  look. 

•*  That  is  for  you  to  decide.** 

*  Because  you  don't  imagine  that  I'm  the  sort  of  man  to 


3a  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

sit  down  quietly  under  the  sort  of  thing  you  suggested 
just  now." 

"  Probably  not ;  and  that  is  just  the  reason  why  I  should 
do  it.  You  have  done  a  good  deal  of  sitting  down  quietly, 
Mr.  Richards.  If  you  won't  speak  to  me  in  a  straight- 
forward manner,  and  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know,  I'll 
take  what  steps  I  can  to  make  you." 

The  two  men  faced  each  other  squarely — the  younger, 
upright,  self-confident,  fearless  ;  the  older,  smouldering 
with  anger,  controlling  himself  with  difficulty,  but,  it 
would  seem,  pushed  into  a  corner.  And  mixed  with  his 
hardly  restrained  impatience  and  baffled  arrogance  there 
showed  another  feeling  against  which  he  appeared  to 
struggle — a  hint  of  respect  which  had  been  far  from  his 
previous  treatment  of  the  young  man  who  now  stood 
facing  him,  demanding  an  account  of  his  stewardship.  He 
turned  away,  and  sat  down  again  in  his  place. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  you  want  to  know,"  he  said, 
shortly ;  and  George's  mental  muscles  relaxed  at  the  sign 
of  victory. 

It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  Mr.  Richards  spoke 
again.  "  Mrs.  Greenfield  was  married  young,"  he  began, 
"  to  a  man  who  ill-treated  her  almost  from  the  first." 

"  Who  was  he  ?  "  asked  George,  sharply. 

"  Nobody  knew  what  he  was.  He  was  an  adventurer,  I 
suppose — a  gambler,  certainly." 

"  Was  he  what  is  called  a  gentleman  ?** 

"  I  don't  know.     I  never  saw  him." 

"  You  never  saw  him  ?  " 

"  No.  I  met  her  first  after  he  had  deserted  her,  not 
much  more  than  a  year  after  they  were  married,  and  I 
helped  her." 

« How  ? " 

"  I  put  her  affairs  into  order." 


SOME   LETTERS,  AND  AN   INTERVIEW.    33 

**  Her  money  affairs  I  suppose  you  mean.  Where  did 
her  money  come  from  if — if  my  father  had  deserted  her  ?  " 

"  It  was  her  own.     He  had  left  her  penniless." 

"  Penniless  I  How  could  he  have  left  her  penniless  if  she 
had  enough  money  to  enable  her  to  live  comfortably,  as  she 
has  done  ever  since  ?  ** 

**  I  mean  he  left  her  nothing.** 

"And  he  was  a  gambler  and  an  adventurer  I  That 
hardly  seems  likely  from  what  one  hears  of  such  people, 
Mr.  Richards." 

Richards  looked  at  him  squarely.  "  I'm  telling  you  the 
truth,"  he  said.  "  If  you  want  to  hear  more,  don't  throw 
doubt  on  my  word." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  George. 

"  Her  money  came  to  her,  fortunately,  within  a  short 
time  of  his  desertion  of  her.  It  was  left  to  her  by  an  old 
friend.  It  is  of  no  use  asking  who,  because  I  can't  tell  you. 
She  didn't  tell  me.  I  took  it  in  hand  for  her  after  she 
had  come  into  possession  of  it,  and  invested  it  for  her. 
You  are  right  in  thinking  her  husband  was  not  the  man  to 
have  left  her  if  he  had  known  of  it.  You  can  judge  what 
sort  of  a  man  he  was  by  the  fact  that  he  deserted  her  just  a 
week  before  you  were  born.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  never  thought  to  have  told  a  living  soul,  least  of  all 
you.  When  I  first  met  Mrs.  Greenfield  she  was  deserted 
and  in  bitter  trouble,  and  I  asked  her  to— to  go  away 
with  me." 

George  sprang  to  his  feet  with  eyes  ablaze  and  hands 
clenched. 

"  You've  asked  for  it,  and  you've  got  to  hear  it,** 
Richards  shouted  suddenly  at  him.  "  Sit  down."  And 
George  took  his  seat  again  without  a  word.  Richards 
resumed  his  story  in  level  tones.  The  flash  of  strong 
emotion  had  shone  and  passed  in  an  instant. 

H.M.  0 


V 


34  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  I  told  her,**  he  went  on,  "  that  when  the  time  came 
she  could  get  a  divorce  from  him.  I  knew  that  such  a 
man  would  be  sure  to  give  her  an  opportunity.  And — 
well,  I  made  some  enquiries,  and  found  out  enough  about 
him  to  have  been  able  to  send  him  about  his  business 
pretty  sharp  if  he  had  ever  molested  her  again.  However, 
she  refused,  of  course ;  but  when  her  good  fortune  came  I 
was  glad  to  be  able  to  help  her.  She  would  not  have 
been  so  well  off  if  it  had  not  been  for  me." 

"  I  don't  understand  a  woman  like  my  mother  allowing 
you  to  act  in  that  way  for  her  after — after  what  had 
happened,"  said  George.  "  I  do  understand  now  one  of 
the  reasons  of  her  dislike  of  you." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  served  her  then,  and  I've  served  her  ever 
since,"  said  Richards. 

"But  wait  a  minute.  You  told  me  that  the  thousand 
pounds  were  left  me  by  my  father,  for  my  education." 

"  Well,  I  told  you  a  lie ;  and  now  you've  got  it.  At 
least,  I  don't  call  it  a  lie.  You  asked  me  if  it  was  so,  and 
if  I  had  said,  no,  you  would  have  gone  on  to  ask  what  I 
didn't  choose  to  tell  you.  So  I  said,  yes.  I  allowed  you 
to  think  what  you  liked." 

'*  Where  did  the  money  come  from  then,  and  why  didn't 
my  mother  know  of  it  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you.  Some  of  her  money  is  invested  in  my 
business  at  so  much  per  cent. — five  per  cent. — but  I  have 
used  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  in  more,  and  that  sum 
of  a  thousand  pounds,  and  a  little  extra  which  she  has 
since  received,  are  her  legitimate  profits." 

"Then  why  didn't  she  receive  them  without  any  con- 
ditions ? " 

"  Because  by  law  there  was  nothing  to  make  me  pay  her 
more  than  the  bare  five  per  cent.  I  should  have  been 
perfectly  justified  in  appropriating  those  extra  profits 


SOME  LETTERS,  AND  AN   INTERVIEW.    35 

myself.  Of  course,  I  had  no  intention  of  doing  so,  but  I 
did  want  to  exercise  some  control  over  your  actions  at  that 
time.  I  thought  that  if  you  went  to  a  place  where  there 
were  rich  and  idle  young  men,  there  might  be  a  chance  of 
your  going  wrong." 

"  Following  in  my  precious  father's  footsteps,  I  suppose," 
said  George  bitterly.  "  Well,  I  can't  say  that  I  think  you 
acted  straightforwardly.  I'll  say  too,  that  I  think,  if  this 
money  was  really  due  to  my  mother,  your  attempt  at  inter- 
fering was  absolutely  unwarrantable.  You  declare  to  me 
now,  without — without  any  mental  reservation,  that  this 
thousand  pounds  was  actually  due  to  my  mother,  and  that 
it  was  not " 

"  I  swear  to  you,"  interrupted  Richard,  almost  with 
passion,  "that  I  have  never  paid  your  mother  a  single 
penny  out  of  my  own  pocket,  except  the  small  sum  she 
takes  for  housing  my  daughter.  And  I'll  go  further,"  he 
went  on,  with  growing  excitement.  "  I'm  willing  to  put 
into  your  hands  every  penny  of  her  capital,  and  leave  you 
to  make  the  best  of  it." 

Whether  it  was  calculated  to  that  end  or  no,  he  could 
not  have  made  an  offer  more,  likely  to  disarm  George's 
hostility. 

"I  needn't  interfere  with  those  arrangements,  Mr. 
Richards,"  he  said.  "  I  would  ratl^r  express  gratitude  to 
you  for  having  managed  my  mother's  affairs  so  well.  You 
have  satisfied  me  on  that  score.  And  as  for  the  rest,  I  can 
only  say  that  if  you  had  told  me  what  I  wanted  to  hear  to 
begin  with,  we  might  have  saved  some  unpleasantness.  It 
is  about  what  I  expected — unfortunately— no  better,  but 
certainly  no  worse.  I  should  like  to  ask  one  more  question. 
My  mother  has  told  me  that  my  father  is  dead.  How  do 
you  know  that  ?  " 

"  He  was  killed  in  a  tavern  brawl  in  San  Francisco.  I 

D  2 


36  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

saw  it  by  chance  in  an  American  paper,  which  gave  his 
name,  and  published  a  photograph  of  him  near  enough  to 
recognise.  I  told  Mrs.  Greenfield,  but  did  not  show  her 
the  paper." 

"When  was  that?" 

"Not  long  after  he  had  deserted  her.  About  twenty 
years  ago." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute.  Mr.  Richards  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  all  about  his  appointment. 

"  Well,"  said  George,  slowly,  "  I  know  my  parentage ; 
and  what  I  have  to  do  is  to  atone  for  it.  I  shan't  tell  my 
mother  that  I  know,  and  you  will  not  tell  her  either." 

Mr.  Richards  made  no  reply. 

"You  will  promise  not  to  tell  her?"  George  pressed 
him. 

"  If  you  like,"  he  replied  with  the  hint  of  a  sneer.  "  But 
I  thought  you  were  going  straight  to  her  directly  you  had 
got  the  story  out  of  me." 

"  It  would  only  pain  her,"  said  George.  "  And  if  she 
finds  that  you  and  I  are  on  better  terms,  as  I  see  no  reason 
why  we  should  not  be  now  that  we  understand  one  another 
better,  her  fears  will  quiet  down." 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Richards  ;  "  and  you  are  satisfied 
now  ?  There  is  nothmg  more  you  want  to  ask  ?  " 

There  was  decided  anxiety  in  his  voice.  But  George 
did  not  notice  it.  His  eyes  were  on  the  ground,  and  his 
thoughts  were  not  concerned  with  his  visitor. 

"Then  I  will  go,"  said  Mr.  Richards,  and  somewhat 
hurriedly  he  picked  up  his  properties,  and,  without  offering 
a  shake  of  the  hand,  took  himself  off. 

George  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  went  over  in  his  mind 
the  story  he  had  heard.  It  was  unpleasant  enough,  but,  as 
he  had  said,  it  was  no  worse  than  he  had  expected.  And 
yet,  now  that  he  had  been  told  that  he  was  the  son  of  a 


SOME  LETTERS,  AND  AN   INTERVIEW.    37 

mean  rascal,  with  nothing  to  redeem  his  sordid  baseness,  he 
found  it  hard  to  adjust  his  thoughts  to  the  fact.  He 
seemed  to  carry  a  taint,  and  it  was  not  until  many  days 
afterwards  that  he  was  able  to  put  the  knowledge  of  his 
birth  on  one  side,  and  take  up  his  life  with  his  old 
determination  and  confidence. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

IT  was  a  quarter  past  ten  on  a  fine  morning  in  mid- 
June,  two  years  after  the  events  narrated  in  the  last 
chapter.  Mr.  Guy  Bertram,  of  whom  we  have  already 
caught  a  passing  glimpse,  was  sitting  at  breakfast  and 
skimming  the  morning  paper — a  mere  matter  of  form,  for 
politics  interested  him  not  at  all,  and  of  what  was  going 
on  in  the  world  that  did  interest  him,  the  paper  told  him 
little  that  was  new.  He  was  a  popular  young  man,  and 
went,  as  the  phrase  has  it,  everywhere. 

The  room  was  a  pleasant  one.  It  was  high  up  in  a 
block  of  bachelors'  chambers  looking  south  over  St. 
James's  Palace  and  Park,  and  west  on  St.  James's  Street. 
There  was  a  recess  in  one  corner  with  a  low  window-seat 
running  round  it.  The  walls  were  covered  with  a  paper 
of  grass-green  and  hung  with  old  prints  of  some  value. 
The  deep  easy  chairs  and  comfortable  sofa  wore  loose 
garments  of  gay  chintz,  over  which  red  roses  and  little 
birds  of  a  species  unknown  to  ornithologists  ran  riot. 
There  were  a  great  many  books,  both  on  shelves  and 
tables,  and  a  grand  piano  stood  in  one  corner. 

The  table  at  which  Guy  Bertram  was  breakfasting  was  near 
the  open  window.  The  sun,  shining  through  striped  awnings 
lowered  outside,  filled  the  room  with  a  subdued  yellow  light, 
and  the  scent  of  musk  from  the  window-boxes,  filled  other- 
wise with  the  orthodox  marguerite  daisy  and  hanging  pink 
geraniums,  stole  insidiously  on  the  senses  and  lingered  there. 


THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES.  39 

To  complete  the  pleasures  of  a  June  morning  in  London 
in  the  middle  of  Ascot  week,  the  incomparable  band  of  the 
Grenadier  Guards  was  playing  the  overture  to  "  Carmen  " 
in  the  quadrangle  of  St.  James's  Palace,  while  the  usual 
crowd  of  desultory  sightseers  hung  about,  dividing  their 
attention  between  the  gallant  soldiery  and  the  tiny  royalties 
who  were  to  be  seen  with  their  nurses  above  the  wall  of  the 
Marlborough  House  Gardens. 

Guy  Bertram  had  strolled  through  the  twenty-six  years 
of  his  life  with  but  little  to  trouble  him.  He  was  an  only 
son,  and  his  mother  had  died  soon  after  he  was  born. 
Poor  soul,  she  had  taken  life  seriously  and  nagged  at  her 
husband.  He  was  a  country  clergyman  and  a  spendthrift, 
but  a  charming  companion,  and  his  son  had  the  pleasantest 
recollections  of  him.  He  had  managed  to  send  Guy  to 
Eton,  and  given  him  plenty  of  pocket  money.  When  the 
boy  was  sixteen  his  father  died,  leaving  his  financial  affairs 
in  inextricable  confusion.  Guy  never  knew  how  near  he 
was  to  being  taken  away  from  school  and  thrown  on  the 
world  penniless. 

The  knot  had  been  cut  by  Sir  Roderick  Bertram,  the 
spendthrift  cleric's  cousin.  Most  people  could  have  told 
you  something  about  Roderick  Bertram  ;  how  he  got  into 
Parliament  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  and  made  a  repu- 
tation for  himself,  and  was  talked  of  everywhere  as  the 
coming  man  of  his  party ;  how  he  made  a  romantic 
marriage  with  an  Italian  beauty  and  brought  her  home  to 
his  house  of  Merrilees,  which  stood  in  gardens  of  enchant- 
ing beauty  on  an  island  in  the  middle  of  a  lake,  all  his 
own ;  and,  finally,  how  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  island 
home  after  his  wife's  death,  and  was  speedily  forgotten, 
living  thenceforward  in  unbroken  solitude. 

Sir  Roderick,  then,  came  forward,  or  rather  Mr.  Calthorp, 
senior  partner  in  the  firm  of  Calthorp,  Griffin  and  Wells, 


40  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

solicitors,  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  came  forward  on  his  behalf, 
cleared  his  cousin's  estate  of  debt,  and  intimated  his  intention 
of  providing  for  Guy's  education  and  allowing  him  a 
thousand  a  year  when  he  should  reach  the  age  of  twenty-one. 
Young  sixteen  does  not  trouble  itself  much  about  money 
matters.  Guy  Bertram  accepted  the  goods  the  gods  had  sent 
him  without  question,  and  it  may  be  said,  without  gratitude, 
for  he  was  his  cousin's  rightful  heir.  It  is  probable  that 
he  had  never  asked  himself  to  this  day  what  would  have 
happened  to  him  if  Sir  Roderick  had  held  aloof.  He  had 
never  seen  his  cousin  or  heard  from  him,  except  through 
Mr.  Calthorp  or  his  partners,  and  he  might  very  well  have 
considered  that  a  man  who  exhibited  no  further  interest  in 
his  nearest  relation  than  to  provide  for  his  maintenance 
somewhat  belied  his  actions  by  doing  as  much  as  that,  or 
at  any  rate,  by  doing  it  on  such  a  scale. 

Guy  had  felt  .somewhat  forlorn  after  his  father's  death ; 
but  the  summer  holidays  were  at  hand,  and  he  was  to  travel 
abroad  with  a  friendly  tutor,  so  he  soon  cheered  up,  and, 
being  a  popular  boy,  with  many  friends,  put  his  trouble 
behind  him,  and  only  took  it  out  to  look  at  with  a  tighten- 
ing at  his  throat  towards  the  end  of  each  "  half,"  when  he 
had  been  wont  to  make  plans  for  his  holidays  in  the 
Hampshire  rectory. 

When  the  time  came  for  him  to  leave  school  he  went  up 
to  Cambridge,  and  spent  two  very  pleasant  years  in 
that  seminary  of  sound  learning,  doing  enough  work  to 
avoid  embarrassing  attentions  from  the  authorities  of  his 
college  and  taking  his  part  in  such  sports  and  pastimes  as 
seemed  good  to  him.  The  only  definite  interest  that  he 
possessed,  other  than  that  of  amusement,  was  art,  and  if  he 
had  been  obliged  to  earn  a  living,  his  abilities  were  such  as 
might  very  well  have  provided  him  with  a  career  and 
an  object  in  life  During  his  long  vacations  he  really  did 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES.  41 

apply  himself  with  some  purpose  to  the  study  of  landscape 
painting,  and  gained  an  immense  reputation  amongst  his 
fellows  for  his  skill ;  and  when  he  came  of  age,  and  was 
put  into  possession  of  his  very  considerable  allowance,  he 
half  made  up  his  mind  to  spend  the  next  few  years  in 
diligent  study,  and  to  become  in  time  a  great  painter.  But 
he  never  got  further  than  to  take  himself  away  from 
Cambridge. 

There  was  no  one  to  make  any  objection  to  this  course 
of  action  except  his  undergraduate  friends  and  a  fatherly 
gyp,  but  his  intentions  with  regard  to  painting  seriously 
soon  faded  away,  and  within  six  months  he  became  quite 
content  simply  to  enjoy  life  as  it  opened  out  before  him. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  he  was  eminently  fitted  for 
this  pursuit.  His  tastes  were  clean,  and  he  took  pleasure 
in  many  simple  things.  He  liked  meeting  his  fellow- 
creatures,  and  found  himself  welcome  enough  wherever 
men  and  women  were  gathered  together.  He  liked  music 
and  books  and  pictures,  and  he  liked  the  sports  of  the  field. 
He  still  painted,  and  painted  remarkably  well  for  an 
amateur,  but  his  painting  was  one  of  his  many  recreations, 
and  not  the  serious  pursuit  which  he  had  thought  of  making 
it.  He  had  perceptions,  the  means  to  gratify  his  tastes, 
and  an  untroubled  conscience,  and  what  can  man  want 
more  at  twenty-six  ?  Life  smiled  on  him  this  fine  June 
morning — nay,  beamed — for  he  had  been  to  Ascot  the  day 
before  with  a  pleasant  party  and  done  very  well  with  his 
small  investments  ;  and  he  was  going  again  to-day  with  a 
still  pleasanter  party,  and  hoped  to  do  even  better. 

The  soft  rumbling  of  the  passenger  lift  heralded  a  knock 
at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  a  discreet  serving-man, 
who  announced,  "  Mr.  Calthorp  to  see  you,  sir," 

There  advanced  into  the  room  a  tall  young  man  of 
about  Guy's  own  age.  He  was  dressed  with  the  most 


42  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

V 

consummate  neatness  from  top  to  toe.  His  coat  looked  just 
three  days  old  ;  the  crease  down  the  middle  of  each  trouser 
leg  was  undisturbed  by  the  slightest  digression  at  the 
knee ;  the  polish  on  his  boots  was  only  excelled  by  that 
of  his  hat,  which  he  carried  in  a  well-gloved  hand.  His 
black  hair  was  so  smooth  that  it  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
ironed.  His  face  was  long  and  preternaturally  solemn, 
and  his  eyeglass  looked  so  much  as  if  he  had  been  born 
with  it,  that  no  muscular  effort  disturbed  its  repose.  But 
a  little  row  of  almost  indistinguishable  crow's  feet  at  the 
corner  of  each  eye  and  the  slightest  little  twitch  at  the 
corner  of  the  mouth,  which  appeared  on  a  closer  observa- 
tion, served  to  qualify  the  first  impression  of  excessive 
gravity.  The  name  of  Dick,  by  which  Guy  Bertram  made 
haste  to  greet  him,  hardly  seemed  suitable,  or  even  re- 
spectful, when  conjoined  with  such  an  appearance  as  he 
presented;  and,  indeed,  he  was  called  Richard  in  his  home 
circle,  which  he  much  preferred.  To  make  an  end  of 
introducing  him,  he  was  the  junior  partner  in  the  firm  of 
Calthorp,  Griffin  and  Wells,  and  son  to  Sir  Roderick 
Bertram's  solicitor,  recently  deceased.  And  he  had  been 
Guy  Bertram's  friend  since  his  school  days. 

"  My  dear  Dick  1 "  exclaimed  Guy.  "  What  on  earth  brings 
you  here  at  this  time  of  the  morning  ?  Coming  to  Ascot  ? " 

**  I  am  not,"  replied  Mr.  Calthorp.  "  Nor  are  you.  Sir 
Roderick  Bertram  died  yesterday.  My  manner  would  be 
more  tinged  with  gloom  than  it  is  if  I  did  not  know  that 
you  had  never  seen  him." 

The  tiny  crows'  feet  showed  up  for  a  moment  and  sub- 
sided. Mr.  Calthorp  placed  his  hat  carefully  on  one  chair 
and  sat  down  on  another,  taking  out  of  his  pocket  a  letter- 
case,  from  which  he  extracted  a  yellow  envelope. 

"  Good  Lord  I "  exclaimed  Guy,  staring  at  him  with 
open  mouth. 


THE  HOUSE  OP    MERRILEES.  43 

"Quite  so,*'  said  Calthorp.  "This  telegram  came  last 
night  after  business  hours,  and  we  opened  it  this  morning. 
It  is  from  Martin,  Sir  Roderick's  servant.  It  runs  thus  : 
'  Morthwaite,  7.45  p.m.  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  died  this 
evening.  Please  inform  Mr.  Bertram.  Robert  Martin.'" 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  Guy. 

"  That  is  all,"  replied  Calthorp.  "  More  could  not  have 
been  said  for  sixpence." 

"  I  must  say  you  take  it  pretty  coolly,  Dick,"  said  Guy, 
in  a  slightly  injured  tone. 

"  Well,  I  do,"  assented  Calthorp.  "  If  it  were  a  near 
relation  I  hope  I  should  know  my  duty  as  a  family  solicitor 
well  enough  to  condole  with  you  in  appropriate  terms. 
As  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  was  your  second  cousin,  twice  or 
thrice  removed — I  forget  which — and  his  lamented  death 
makes  you  a  baronet  with  about  seventy  thousand  a  year 
— unless  he  has  left  it  away  from  you — the  occasion  does 
not  seem  to  call  for  any  elaborate  display  of  grief." 

"  Was  he  as  rich  as  all  that  ?  "  enquired  Guy,  with  a 
gleam  of  satisfaction  in  his  eye. 

"  We  have  every  reason  to  believe  so.** 

"  Show  me  the  telegram,"  said  Guy. 

Calthorp  handed  it  to  him,  and  he  stood  in  silence  for  a  few 
minutes,  turning  over  in  his  fingers  the  flimsy  sheet  which 
bore  such  momentous  intelligence.  The  "  Song  of  the 
Toreador"  challenged  a  hearing  through  tht  rumble  of 
the  London  traffic.  Calthorp  brushed  an  invisible  speck 
of  dust  from  his  waistcoat. 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  ?  "  asked  Guy. 

"I  think  we  had  better  go  up  there — to  Cumberland," 
said  Calthorp.  "  You  certainly  ought  to  go  and  take  a 
hand  in  what  I  believe  are  called  the  obsequies,  and  I 
think  I  ought  to  go  and  see  if  I  can  find  a  will  or  something 
of  that  sort." 


44V  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES, 

"  Haven't  you  got  one  in  your  office  ?  ** 

*  No.  Sir  Roderick  Bertram,  as  you  are  no  doubt  aware, 
was  not  quite  like  other  people.  My  father  used  to  go  up 
to  Merrilees  to  see  him  occasionally,  a  good  many  years  ago, 
but  for  a  long  time  he  has  done  all  his  business  with  us  by 
correspondence,  and  it  has  got  to  be  very  little  of  late.  In 
fact,  for  some  years  it  has  chiefly  confined  itself  to  our 
receiving  a  quarterly  cheque  for  your  allowance,  sending  an 
acknowledgment,  and  paying  the  money  into  your  bank, 
from  which,  no  doubt,  it  disappears  with  remarkable 
rapidity." 

"And  he  never  said  anything  to  you  about  making  a 
will?'* 

"No.  My  father,  I  believe,  did  venture  to  suggest  it 
to  him  at  the  time  the  arrangement  was  entered  into 
for  your  benefit.  The  estate  is  entailed  and  comes  to  you 
any  way.  But  it  brings  in  practically  nothing.  Sir 
Roderick  inherited  his  enormous  fortune  from  his  mother. 
It  was  chiefly  in  American  securities.  He  could  leave  that 
as  he  liked,  and  my  father,  I  believe,  suggested  the  advisa- 
bility of  his  leaving  it  to  you,  or,  at  any  rate,  leaving  it 
to  somebody." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  H 

"  He  didn't  say  anything.  It  was  a  way  he  had.  He 
never  answered  the  letter.  And  I  should  think  the  proba- 
bility is  he  never  made  a  will.  In  that  case,  as  I  believe 
you  are  his  sole  relation,  you  take  everything,  minus  the 
amount  which  will  be  appropriated  by  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer." 

"  It's  a  pleasant  little  sum,"  said  Guy,  cheerfully. 

"There  is  some  spending  in  it,"  admitted  Calthorp. 
"  Can  you  get  ready  to  go  by  the  two  o'clock  train  from 
Euston  ?  That  will  get  us  up  there  to-night  ?  * 

"Oh  yes,  easily.** 


THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES.  45 

"Very  well,  then.  I  will  send  a  wire  to  this  fellow 
Martin  and  tell  him  to  meet  us  at  Keswick.  I  must  go 
home  and  get  some  clothes.  We  can  talk  in  the  train. 
Two  o'clock,  then,  and  don't  be  late."  And  Mr.  Calthorp 
put  on  his  very  shiny  hat,  buttoned  two  buttons  of  his  coat, 
and  went  out. 

Guy  went  into  his  bedroom  to  change  his  clothes,  and 
summoned  the  discreet  servant  to  pack  his  portmanteau. 
His  face  was  thoughtful  and  even  a  little  bewildered,  but  it 
gradually  cleared,  and  as  he  slipped  on  a  tweed  jacket  and 
filled  his  pockets,  he  began  to  whistle  a  tune. 

An  hour  or  two  later  Guy  and  Calthorp  were  sitting  in  a 
compartment  of  a  corridor  train,  flying  north. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  forgot  to  mention  this  morning," 
said  Calthorp.  "  All  Sir  Roderick's  securities  are  held  by 
his  stockbrokers,  who  revel  in  the  name  of  Temple  and 
Quality.  I  went  back  to  the  office  after  I  had  left  you  and 
had  a  note  written  to  instruct  them  to  send  a  statement  to 
me  at  Merrilees.  I  hope  they  will  see  their  way  to  com- 
plying with  my  request ;  then  we  shall  see  where  we 
stand." 

"  How  much  do  you  think  it  is,  old  man,"  enquired 
Guy,  cheerfully. 

"Well,  I  looked  up  what  particulars  we  had.  It  was 
something  a  little  over  a  million  when  old  Lady  Bertram 
died,  and  as  Sir  Roderick  has  been  living  in  the  closest 
retirement  for  about  five  and  twenty  years,  it  ought  pretty 
well  to  have  doubled  itself  by  this  time." 

"  That  means  eighty  or  ninety  thousand  a  year.  I  shall 
be  able  to  buy  one  or  two  things  that  I  want,"  said  the  son 
of  the  spendthrift  parson. 

"  If  you  get  it." 

"  I  shall  get  the  house,  anyhow.  I  believe  it  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  places  in  England.  I  met  an  old  woman 


46  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

once  who  had  stayed  there  as  a  girl,  in  my  great  grand- 
father's time.  She  told  me  about  the  cascade,  and  the 
Italian  gardens.  And  I  have  met  people  who  went  there 
in  my  cousin's  time  before  his  wife  died  and  he  shut  himself 
up.  Nobody  has  seen  the  place  since  ;  nobody  at  all." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  have,"  said  Calthorp,  readjusting 
his  eyeglass. 

"  You ! " 

"No  other.  Only  the  island  and  the  outside  of  the 
house,  and  the " 

"  Oh,  anybody  can  see  that." 

"  No  they  can't ;  unless  they  climb  a  ten-foot  wall.** 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"The  whole  of  the  park  is  enclosed  by  a  stone  wall. 
There  are  five  or  six  gates,  and  they  are  always  kept 
locked.  The  lake  is  in  the  middle  of  the  park  and  the 
island  is  in  the  middle  of  the  lake,  and  the  house  is  in  the 
middle  of  the  island.  I  don't  know  what  is  in  the  middle 
of  the  house,  because  I  haven't  been  there.  But  I  have 
stood  on  the  shore  of  Morthwaite  Lake  and  seen  the  house 
and  the  terraces  and  the  cascade,  and  I  tell  you  candidly 
that,  although  I  was  at  the  unimpressionable  age  of  ten,  I 
have  never  forgotten  it." 

"  How  did  you  get  there  ?  " 

"  We  were  staying  with  an  uncle  of  mine  near  Penrith, 
and  I  believe  Sir  Roderick  sent  for  my  father.  I  remember 
his  saying  to  me, '  I'm  going  to  show  you  the  most  beautiful 
house  in  England.'  We  went  to  Keswick  by  train.  There 
was  a  carriage  waiting  for  us  at  the  station.  I  remember 
the  coachman  looking  at  me  as  if  he  didn't  quite  know 
what  sort  of  a  reptile  I  was,  but  he  didn't  say  anything,  so 
I  got  to  the  gates  of  the  park  safely  after  a  long  drive. 
There  they  tried  to  stop  me,  but  my  father  shook  his  beard 
at  them,  and  they  let  me  through.  When  we  got  down  to 


THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES-  47 

the  lake,  where  the  stables  and  the  landing  stage  ate, 
there  was  this  fellow  Martin,  who  is  a  sort  of  secretary  as 
well  as  valet  to  Sir  Roderick,  waiting  with  a  boat  and  two 
men  to  row  it.  He  wasn't  going  to  let  me  any  further, 
and  nothing  would  induce  him  to.  He  struck  me  as  a 
most  disagreeable  fellow.  All  he  could  do  for  me  was  to 
give  me  permission  to  walk  about  the  woods.  But  I 
wasn't  to  show  myself  from  the  house.  I  made  the  best  of 
my  time.  It  was  in  May.  I  got  five  different  sorts  of  eggs 
and  tore  my  trousers  in  four  places.  At  last,  when  I  got 
up  near  the  top  of  a  high  tree,  I  saw  the  whole  thing.  I 
was  so  struck  with  it  I  nearly  fell  down  again." 

"  What  was  it  like  ?  " 

"  Well,  I've  never  been  to  the  Garden  of  Eden,  but  we 
had  a  coloured  photograph  of  it  in  our  Family  Bible.  It 
was  a  good  deal  better  than  that.  However,  you'll  see  it 
yourself  in  an  hour  or  two's  time,  and  I'll  save  my  descrip- 
tive powers,  which  are  meagre,  for  somebody  else,  when  I 
have  refreshed  my  memory." 

The  pair  of  them  dined  together  as  the  train  rattled 
away  from  Preston,  and  in  due  course  arrived  at  Penrith. 
Here  they  changed,  and  had  another  half-hour's  journey  in 
a  local  train  to  Keswick.  Both  of  them  were  silent.  Now 
that  they  were  getting  near  their  journey's  end,  it  was 
inevitable  that  the  place  they  were  bound  for  should 
present  itself  to  their  imagination,  not  as  an  enchanted 
palace  of  sunny  pleasure,  but  as  the  house  of  mourning 
and  death. 

They  alighted  at  Keswick.  A  footman  with  powdered 
hair  came  up  to  meet  them  on  the  platform  and  led  the 
way  to  an  old-fashioned  carriage,  upon  the  box  of  which 
reigned  a  coachman  of  great  age  and  girth,  wearing  a  wig. 
Guy  cast  a  glance  at  the  horses  and  then  looked  up  in 
amaze  at  the  mighty  coachman.  A  shade  of  mottled  red 


4&  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

suffused  that  functionary's  face.  He  bent  down  from  his 
high  seat,  his  hat  in  his  hand.  "  They  was  the  best  I  could 
do,  Sir  Guy,"  he  said  in  the  husky  voice  of  asthmatic  old 
age.  "Sir  Roderick  hasn't  used  a  carriage  for  five  and 
twenty  years." 

Guy  and  Calthorp  got  into  the  carriage,  the  footman 
clambered  up  beside  the  old  coachman,  and  the  plebeian 
horses,  which,  a  spite  of  silver  fitted  harness,  looked  like 
nothing  but  what  they  were,  members  of  the  equine 
proletariat,  set  out  at  a  fair  pace  on  their  ten  mile  drive. 

They  went  through  the  town  and  round  the  head  of 
Derwentwater.  The  road  lay  for  some  distance  alongside 
the  lake,  and  then  turned  to  pierce  into  the  heart  of  the 
glooming  hills.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  they  lost 
their  final  view  of  the  water,  lying  now  far  below  them. 
The  dark  woods  crept  down  to  the  lake,  a  dead-level  floor 
of  steely  slate  broken  by  tree-covered  islets.  The  hills 
behind  them  stood  up  against  the  sky  like  gigantic  pieces 
of  stage  scenery,  their  features  lost  in  a  haze  of  deep 
purple,  with  only  the  sharp  line  of  their  summits  to  dis- 
tinguish them  from  masses  of  heavy  cloud.  As  the  carriage 
penetrated  further  into  the  recesses  of  the  hills  the  road 
grew  heavier.  The  white-washed  cottages  and  farm- 
houses with  their  roofs  of  stone  slabs  and  the  roses 
clambering  up  the  eaves  became  more  rare,  until  they 
ceased  altogether,  and  only  the  indistinct  form  of  white 
scurrying  sheep  amongst  the  young  bracken  by  the  road- 
side served  to  redeem  the  complete  loneliness  of  the  gloomy 
fells. 

By-and-bye,  after  a  long  silence,  during  which  each  of  the 
young  men  had  been  immersed  in  his  private  thoughts,  the 
road  took  a  sharp  turn  down-hill.  Night  had  now  set  in, 
but  there  was  a  rising  moon.  The  tinkle  of  running  water 
was  heard  and  a  little  wood  loomed  up  by  the  roadside  and 


THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES.  49 

gave  place  to  a  line  of  low  cottages.  Calthorp  roused 
himself.  "  I  remember  this,"  he  said.  "  We  are  coming  to 
Morthwaite,  and  shall  soon  reach  the  wall  of  the  park." 

The  coachman  jammed  on  the  brake,  and  the  heavy 
carriage  slid  screaming  down  a  steep  loose  road.  The 
brake  was  taken  off  again,  and  they  rolled  smartly  through 
a  fair-sized  village.  Lights  shone  in  windows  and  open 
doorways,  and  people  stood  in  little  knots  to  see  them 
drive  by.  Soon  after  they  had  got  clear  of  the  houses  the 
road  took  a  sudden  turn  to  the  left  and  ran  alongside  the 
high  wall  of  which  Calthorp  had  spoken,  and  finally  turned 
with  a  fine  sweep  between  two  massive  gates  standing  wide 
open  by  a  low  stone  lodge.  The  brake  was  put  on  pre- 
paratory to  another  steep  dip,  and  the  carriage  plunged 
into  the  darkness  of  a  thick  wood,  but  soon  emerged,  and 
they  saw  stretched  beneath  them  the  moon-silvered  lake,  its 
shores  muffled  in  foliage,  and  rising  in  its  centre  an  island, 
larger  than  any  of  those  on  Derwentwater,  of  which  they 
could  see  nothing  more  than  the  steep  thickly  wooded  side 
nearest  them. 

"  The  house  is  on  the  top  behind  the  trees,"  said  Calthorp, 
as  the  brake  was  put  on  for  the  last  time  and  the  carriage 
grumbled  its  way  down  to  the  shore. 

The  road  ended  in  a  great  cobbled  square,  on  either  side 
of  which  was  a  wall  with  stables  and  out-buildings  behind 
it.  A  boat  was  lying  moored  to  a  stone  jetty,  and  two  men 
stood  beside  it  ready  to  row  them  across  to  the  island. 

"  I  wonder  why  Martin  isn't  here,"  said  Calthorp,  as  he 
and  Guy  alighted  from  the  carriage. 

"  The  place  doesn't  belong  to  Martin,"  said  Guy,  a  little 
testily. 

They  took  their  seats  in  the  stern  of  the  boat.  Lights 
gleamed  from  the  buildings  on  the  bank  of  the  lake.  Two 
grooms  came  out  with  a  cheerful  bustle  to  attend  to  the 

M.M.  E 


50  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

plebeian  horses,  while  the  fat  coachman  rolled  heavily  ofl 
the  box  and  the  footman  waited  for  the  luggage  cart  which 
was  rattling  down  the  hill  above  the  landing  stage.  The 
boat  floated  out  across  the  water  away  from  the  lights  and 
the  voices  towards  the  hidden  house  on  the  dark  hill. 

"When  we  get  round  the  corner  you  will  see,"  said 
Calthorp,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  men  were  rowing  obliquely  towards  a  wooded  spur 
on  the  south  of  the  island.  The  water  was  evidently  deep 
here,  for  they  rowed  within  an  oar's  length  of  the  bank, 
under  the  very  branches  of  the  overhanging  trees.  As 
they  came  out  once  more  into  the  open  Guy  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  surprise  and  delight. 

The  boat  was  in  a  deep  recessed  bay,  shut  in  on  the 
west  by  just  such  another  tree-crowned  cape  as  the  one 
they  had  rounded.  High  up  on  the  very  summit  of  the 
island,  but  guarded  on  east  and  west  by  deep  lines  of  huge 
trees,  stood  a  noble  house  of  white  stone,  its  long  lines  of 
windows  gleaming  coldly  in  the  moonlight.  Terrace  after 
terrace,  their  lines  broken  by  tall  cypresses  and  their  mas- 
sive balustrades  wreathed  in  foliage,  led  the  eye  down  to 
the  waters  of  the  lake,  sweeping  out  to  the  whole  width  of 
the  bay,  and  ending  in  a  flight  of  shallow  steps  which  lost 
themselves  in  the  line  of  the  water.  In  the  middle  of  this 
gigantic  staircase,  rising  from  some  indistinguishable  foun- 
tain below  the  topmost  terrace,  fell  a  cataract  of  water, 
bounded  by  a  curved  and  involuted  balustrade,  broadening 
here  and  there  into  a  manv-fountained  pool  and  narrowing 
again  into  a  gleaming  channel,  until  it  took  its  final 
plunge  into  the  waters  of  the  lake  from  a  ledge  fifty  feet 
above  them.  The  same  thing  may  be  seen  in  the  gardens 
of  some  old  Italian  palace,  but  hardly  on  a  scale  of  such 
magnificence.  In  the  white  moonlight,  from  this  hill  and 
wood-encircled  lake,  the  effect  was  indescribable.  The 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES.  51 

place  looked  like  some  unexpected  fairy  palace,  and  the 
owner  of  ail  this  enchanting  beauty  now  saw  it  for  the 
first  time. 

The  boat  glided  up  to  the  marble  steps  and  pushed  off 
again  into  the  shade  of  the  trees  after  the  two  young  men 
had  got  out.  They  saw  it  round  the  little  cape  on  its  way 
back  to  the  shore  as  they  reached  the  first  terrace.  The 
night  was  scented  with  flowers.  Roses  and  clematis  and 
honeysuckle  smothered  the  stone  balustrades  with  luxuriant 
growth.  Long  lines  of  stately  lilies,  more  roses,  and  a 
profusion  of  June  blossoming  flowers  bordered  the  terraces. 
The  water  plashed  incessantly  down  its  stone  stairway,  and 
the  fountains  played  in  their  flower- bordered  pools. 

*'  It  is  more  beautiful  than  anything  I  have  ever  seen," 
said  Guy,  as  the  two  young  men  stood  at  last  on  the  top- 
most terrace  and  looked  down  on  the  waters  of  the  lake. 

They  turned  towards  the  house.  The  hall- door  was 
wide  open,  and  the  dark  figures  of  half  a  dozen  men  stood 
against  the  bright  light  within.  They  were  received  by  a 
white-haired  butler,  who  bowed  low  to  his  new  master. 
Two  footmen  relieved  them  of  their  coats  and  hats.  They 
might  have  been  entering  the  hall  of  a  big  London  house 
instead  of  the  home  of  a  lonely  recluse. 

"  Will  you  please  step  this  way,  Sir  Guy  ?  "  said  the 
butler.  The  two  young  men  followed  him  into  a  room  on 
the  left  of  the  halL 


CHAPTER  V. 

AT  THE   END  OF   THE  JOURNEY. 

THE  old  butler  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  turned  to 
the  young  men.  His  face  was  white,  and  his  hands  shaking. 
He  had  a  difficulty  in  speaking,  and  his  voice  made  a 
gulping  sound  in  his  throat  as  he  tried  to  bring  out  his 
words. 

"I've  kept  it  from  them  all,"  he  managed  to  stammer 
out  at  last.  "  No  one  knows  but  me  and  one  other.  I  kept 
it  from  them  till  you  came." 

They  stared  at  him  in  consternation,  but  Calthorp  almost 
instantly  collected  himself.  The  lines  of  his  face  set  them- 
selves. He  looked  both  keen  and  capable. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  asked.  "  What  has  hap- 
pened?" 

"  Sir  Roderick  has  gone,"  said  the  butler. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Calthorp  quietly,  in  the  tone 
which  one  uses  towards  a  child.  "  Martin  sent  a  wire  to 
my  firm  last  night.  Where  is  Martin  ?  " 

"  Martin  has  gone  too,"  said  the  old  butler,  "  and  one  of 
the  gardeners.  I  don't  mean  they  are  dead,"  he  explained. 
**  Sir  Roderick  died  yesterday  afternoon.  His  body  is  gone  ; 
and  Martin  and  the  gardener  are  gone  too." 

Calthorp  took  his  seat  at  a  writing  table  and  dipped 
a  pen  in  the  ink.  "  Sit  down,"  he  said  to  Guy.  "  And  you 
had  better  sit  down,  Mr. — Mr.  Feltham.  Thank  you.  I  don't 
wonder  you  are  upset.  Now,  tell  us  all  about  it,  and  take 
your  time.  First  of  all,  when  did  Sir  Roderick  die  ?  " 


AT  THE   END  OF  THE  JOURNEY.         53 

"  About  a  quarter  past  three  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon, 
sir,"  said  the  old  butler.  Calthorp's  authoritative  air 
seemed  to  quiet  his  agitation,  and  he  replied  to  the  cross- 
examination  which  followed  concisely  and  clearly. 

"A  quarter  past  three.  Who  sent  the  telegram  to  my 
firm  announcing  his  death  ?  " 

"  Martin  got  himself  rowed  over  to  Morthwaite  about 
seven  o'clock.  He  told  me  he  was  going  to  wire  to  you,  sir." 

"  Did  he  usually  go  on  that  sort  of  errand  himself  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  and  I  thought  it  a  little  queer  when  he 
told  me.** 

"How  long  had  Sir  Roderick  been  ill?" 

44  A  matter  of  four  days,  sir." 

44  What  was  the  nature  of  his  illness  ?  ** 

44  He  caught  a  chill,  sir,  sitting  out  on  the  terrace  on 
Sunday  night.  Martin  had  gone  to  London  the  day  before. 
We  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  wanted  to  send  for  the 
doctor  the  next  morning,  but  Sir  Roderick  wouldn't  have 
it,  and  he  wouldn't  stay  in  bed.  In  the  evening  he  was 
very  bad  and  sent  a  groom  over  to  Keswick  to  fetch  back 
the  doctor,  then  and  there.  He  came  the  next  morning." 

u  Who  was  the  doctor  ?  " 

44  Dr.  Mellish,  sir.  A  highly  respected  gentleman.  He  had 
attended  the  servants  in  the  house  for  many  years.  Sir 
Roderick  had  never  been  ill  before  within  my  recollection." 

44  Did  Dr.  Mellish  attend  him  until  his  death  ?  " 

44  He  never  left  the  house,  sir,  till  the  end  came,  and  was 
in  the  room  when  Sir  Roderick  died." 

"  Who  else  was  in  the  room  ?  " 

44 1  was,  sir,  and  Mrs.  Cheetham,  the  housekeeper,  and 
Gibbs,  the  coachman,  and  Martin.  Martin  had  come  back 
the  night  before,  but  Sir  Roderick  had  never  recognised  him. 
We  were  all  very  old  servants,  sir,  and  was  here  before  her 
ladyship  died." 


54  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

The  old  man  showed  signs  of  emotion. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Cal thorp,  and  made  notes  on  a 
sheet  of  paper  till  he  had  recovered  himself.  "  Did  Dr. 
Mellish  sign  a  certificate  of  death  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  told  Martin,  sir,  that  he  would  post  it  on  when  he 
got  back  to  Keswick.  He  hadn't  a  form  with  him.  I've 
got  the  letter  here,  sir.  I  know  Dr.  Mellish's  writing,  and 
his  note  paper." 

Calthorp  took  the  proffered  envelope  and  turned  it  over. 

"You  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  this  is  from  Dr. 
Mellish  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  sir,  none." 

"  I  will  open  it,"  Calthorp  said  to  Guy.  He  did  so,  and 
glanced  over  the  paper  it  contained.  "  Pneumonia,  3.15," 
he  said,  and  laid  the  paper  aside. 

"  Now  when  did  you  first  find  out  that  Sir  Roderick's 
body  had  disappeared  ?  "  he  asked,  turning  again  to  the 
butler. 

"It  was  about  nine  o'clock  this  morning,  sir.  I  had 
occasion  to  consult  Martin  about  some  arrangements  and 
went  to  his  room.  It  was  empty,  and  the  bed  had  not  been 
slept  in.  I  thought  he  might  be  in  Sir  Roderick's  dressing- 
room,  and  I  went  there.  Then  I  opened  the  door  gently 
into  the  big  bedroom,  for  I  thought  I  would  like  to  look  at 
my  old  master  again,  sir,  and  my  'eart  gave  a  leap,  and  I 
turned  giddy  for  a  moment.  The  bed  was  all  tumbled,  and 
the  flowers  that  we'd  laid  about  it  the  night  before,  sir, 
was  scattered  on  the  floor,  and — and  Sir  Roderick  wasn't 
there." 

"  What  did  you  do  then  ?  " 

*'  I  sat  down  for  a  minute  till  I  could  take  it  in,  sir ;  then 
I  locked  the  door,  and  put  the  key  in  my  pocket,  and  set 
out  to  find  Martin.  I  went  all  over  the  house,  but  I  couldn't 
find  him.  Then  I  went  to  his  room  again,  and  1  found 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  JOURNEY.         55 

most  of  his  clothes  was  gone ;  so  then  I  knew  that  he'd 
gone  for  good." 

"  How  did  you  manage  to  keep  the  news  from  the  other 
servants  ?  " 

44 1  had  to  tell  Mrs.  Cheetham,  sir.  She  and  Martin  and 
I  was  accustomed  to  breakfast  in  the  Room,  sir,  and  I  had 
to  tell  her  why  he  didn't  come.  She  went  upstairs  with  me 
and  saw  what  I  said,  and  we  laid  our  heads  together,  sir, 
and  gave  it  out  that  Martin  was  gone  to  meet  you  at 
Keswick,  and  so  we  kept  the  truth  to  ourselves  till  you 
came.  Later  on  in  the  morning  we  heard  that  this  young 
gardener — James  Braithwaite  his  name  was,  sir — hadn't 
been  home  all  night.  He  lives  with  his  old  grandmother 
up  at  Morthwaite.  And  Mrs.  Cheetham  and  I  put  two  and 
two  together ;  but  no  one  else  knows  anything  but  that." 

44  Can  you  tell  me  anything  about  this  gardener  ?  " 

"  He's  worked  on  the  place  since  he  was  a  boy,  sir. 
He'd  likely  be  thirty  now.  He  always  kept  to  himself,  and 
was  never  liked.  They  do  say  he  drinks,  but  I've  never 
seen  him  the  worse  for  liquor,  and,  to  my  mind,  it's  only 
idle  gossip,  made  up  because  he's  never  gone  with  the  other 
lads  and  lasses." 

44  Did  you  see  Martin  talking  to  him  after  Sir  Roderick 
was  taken  ill  ? " 

44  He  rowed  him  over  in  the  boat,  sir,  to  take  the 
telegram.  But  there,  was  nothing  in  that.  He  was  one  of 
those  whose  place  it  was  to  look  after  the  boats." 

Calthorp  sat  for  a  short  time  with  his  eyes  bent  on  the 
paper  before  him. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Feltham,"  he  said,  M I  don't  think  you  could 
have  behaved  more  sensibly  than  you  have  done.  But  we 
can't  keep  this  startling  piece  of  news  to  ourselves  any 
longer.  Martin  hasn't  come  back  with  us,  and  the  servants 
will  soon  be  asking  questions.  I  should  be  much  surprised 


56  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

if  they  have  not  begun  to  ask  them  already.  Don't  say 
anything  just  yet.  Sir  Guy  and  I  must  talk  it  over.  I 
think  you  may  go  now." 

The  old  butler  rose  from  his  seat.  He  looked  towards 
Guy,  who  had  sat  silent  throughout  the  interview. 

"  Ah,  Sir  Guy,"  he  said,  tremulously, "  it  would  have  been 
a  very  different  welcome  to  Merrilees,  in  spite  of  our  old 
master's  death,  if  this  awful  thing  hadn't  happened." 

Guy  rose,  and  shook  the  old  man's  hand,  but  said 
nothing. 

"There's  supper  laid  in  the  dining-room,  gentlemen," 
said  the  butler,  with  a  slight  return  to  his  professional 
manner. 

"  We  will  come  in  a  minute,"  said  Calthorp,  who  was 
still  writing  at  the  table. 

"  Good  God ! "  exclaimed  Guy  when  they  were  left 
alone.  "  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  " 

"  Blackmail,"  replied  Calthorp,  shortly.  "  Martin  and 
the  gardener  are  in  it.  They  have  carried  off  the  body, 
and  are  holding  it  for  ransom." 

**  The  blackguards  !  "  said  Guy.    "  What  can  we  do  ?  " 

*'  Set  Scotland  Yard  to  work,  and  in  the  meantime  make 
A  search  on  our  own  account.  My  impression  is  that  they 
must  have  hidden  the  body  either  on  the  island  or  in  the 
woods  round  the  lake.  If  they  had  got  through  one  of  the 
gates  they  would  have  been  seen.  We  had  better  set  the 
men  in  the  house  to  work  to-night.  There  seem  to  be 
plenty  of  them.  W«  will  offer  a  reward.  A  hundred 
pounds,  I  think." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Guy.  **  And  I  suppose  you  will  tell 
them  all  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"We  couldn't  keep  it  dark  if  we  wanted  to.  But  you 
had  better  do  the  talking.  Let  us  have  some  supper,  and 
then  tell  Feltham  to  call  the  household  together.  You 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  JOURNEY.         57 

must  make  them  a  short  speech — feelings  of  horror  at  dis- 
covery, detestation  of  crime,  keenness  to  track  criminals, 
anxiety  to  afford  respect  to  remains  of  late  head  of  house. 
Do  it  as  well  as  you  can.  You  reign  here  now,  and  must 
make  a  good  impression.  I'll  stand  down  for  the  time 
being.  But  I'll  lay  my  hands  on  that  fellow  Martin  before 
I'm  much  older." 

Underneath  the  flippancy  of  his  speech  there  was  an  air 
of  resolution  in  Calthorp's  bearing  which  impressed  Guy. 

"  It  is  a  horrible  business  to  come  into,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
jolly  glad  I've  got  you  with  me,  Dick." 

Calthorp  gathered  up  his  notes  and  put  them  in  his 
pocket.  "Let  us  go  and  take  a  little  light  refreshment," 
he  said. 

They  found  the  old  butler  and  two  footmen  awaiting  them 
at  the  door  of  the  dining  room.  It  was  a  room  of  noble 
proportions,  panelled  in  oak,  with  a  ceiling  of  moulded 
plaster.  A  few  pictures  hung  on  the  walls.  On  either  side 
of  the  great  open  fireplace  were  the  portraits  of  Sir  Roderick 
and  his  wife,  the  former  painted  thirty  years  before  by 
Millais.  It  represented  a  young  man  of  commanding 
presence,  with  a  fine  head,  dark  searching  eyes,  and  a  firm 
clean  mouth.  It  was  a  face  not  easily  forgotten.  In  spite 
of  its  youth  there  was  great  force  and  will  in  its  lines ; 
and  the  powerful  mind  of  a  leader  of  men  shone  through 
the  eyes  with  an  unmistakable  meaning.  It  was  almost 
inconceivable  that  such  a  man  should  have  condemned 
himself  to  a  life  of  hermit  loneliness.  The  picture  of 
Sir  Roderick's  wife  was  that  of  a  most  beautiful  young 
girL  It  was  by  an  unknown  Italian  artist,  but  worthy 
for  all  that  to  hang  side  by  side  with  the  other.  Over 
the  massive  oak  buffet  at  the  end  of  the  room  was 
Romney's  painting  of  Sir  Michael,  a  thin-faced  melancholy 
man  with  great  dark  eyes.  He  was  the  baronet  who  had 


58  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

built  the  house  and  the  terraces  and  spent  the  whole  of  his 
fortune  over  his  costly  whim.  Guy  had  possessed  himself 
of  engravings  of  the  pictures  of  Sir  Michael  and  Sir 
Roderick,  but  he  now  saw  the  originals  for  the  first  time. 
He  recognised  also  the  portrait  of  his  great-uncle,  Sir 
Michael  the  second,  who  had  never  been  able  to  live  in  the 
lordly  pleasure-house  that  Sir  Michael  the  first  had  reared 
for  himself.  The  other  portraits  in  the  room  were  of  no 
great  artistic  merit.  They  went  back  to  Sir  Roderick,  the 
first  baronet  of  the  reign  of  James  II. 

The  two  men  talked  very  little  while  the  servants  were 
in  the  room.  The  supper  was  beautifully  served,  the  wines 
were  of  the  best,  and  the  old  silver  and  the  glass  and  the 
china  on  the  table  gave  pleasure  to  Guy's  artistic  eye,  even 
in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  of  mind  caused  by  the  startling 
story  they  had  just  heard.  Evidently  Sir  Roderick  in  his 
retirement  had  not  denied  himself  the  luxuries  or  even  the 
magnificences  of  life.  The  footmen  retired  at  last,  and  the 
old  butler  put  the  wine  on  the  table. 

Calthorp  threw  a  glance  at  Guy,  who  said  to  the  butler, 
"  Call  all  the  servants  together  in  the  hall,  Feltham.  I 
must  tell  them  what  has  happened,  and  what  we  are  going 
to  do." 

Going  out  five  minutes  later,  they  found  a  small  army  of 
men  and  women  grouped  together  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
There  seemed  to  be  more  of  them  than  was  warranted  by 
the  size  of  the  house,  big  as  it  was,  certainly  more  than 
could  have  been  necessary  to  provide  for  the  necessities  of 
one  lonely  man.  On  the  edge  of  the  group  sat  a  little 
old  lady  in  a  dress  of  black  satin  and  a  lace  cap.  Some- 
thing impelled  Guy  to  go  up  and  shake  hands  with  her, 
which  afforded  the  old  lady  tearful  gratification,  and  seemed 
to  impress  the  assembled  company.  The  old  lady  looked 
much  shaken,  and  there  was  an  air  of  expectancy  on  the 


AT  THE   END  OF  THE  JOURNEY.         59 

faces  of  the  group  which  betokened  that  a  hint  of  some- 
thing unusual  had  got  about  among  them. 

Guy  took  his  place  behind  a  table  which  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  hall  between  himself  and  the  group  of 
servants.  Calthorp  sat  down  near  him. 

**  I  am  among  you  for  the  first  time,"  Guy  said,  "  as  the 
successor  to  your  old  master,  whose  loss  I  am  sure  you  all 
deplore.  But  I  should  not  have  called  you  together  just 
now  unless  I  had  had  something  very  serious  to  communi- 
cate to  you,  something  which  I  only  learnt  half  an  hour 
ago  on  first  coming  to  this  house.  I  am  told  that  the  body 
of  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  has  been  taken  away  from  the 
room  in  which  it  lay,  and  from  the  house." 

A  gasp  and  a  rustle  of  astonishment  ran  through  the 
assembled  group.  Eye  .was  turned  to  eye,  and  in  some  of 
them  surmise  and  calculation  began  to  work. 

"  As  most  of  you  by  this  time  probably  know,"  con- 
tinued Guy,  "  Martin,  Sir  Roderick's  valet,  and  one  of  the 
gardeners,  Braithwaite,  have  not  been  seen  about  the  place 
since  last  night.  It  is  impossible  to  avoid  connecting  their 
disappearance  with  that  of  Sir  Roderick's  body.  It  is 
impossible  also  to  come  to  any  other  conclusion  but  that 
the  motive  of  this  base  crime  is  to  extort  money  for  the 
recovery  of  the  body.  As  to  that  we  shall  know  later,  and 
I  shall  spare  no  pains  to  bring  the  culprits  to  punishment. 
But,  although  these  men  have  apparently  got  clear  away, 
it  is  practically  certain  that  they  cannot  have  carried  the 
body  away  with  them.  I  am  told  that  a  high  wall  runs 
all  round  the  park,  and  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  get 
through  any  of  the  gates  without  the  lodge-keeper's  know- 
ledge. It  follows,  therefore,  that  the  body  must  have  been 
hidden  either  on  this  island,  or  somewhere  on  the  mainland 
within  the  circle  of  the  walls,  and  what  we  have  to  do  is 
to  make  a  diligent  search  for  it,  so  that  we  can  afford 


60  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

honourable  burial  to  the  remains  of  one  whose  memory  we 
all  respect,  I  no  less  than  you,  although  you  knew  him  and 
I  did  not.  My  friend  and  legal  adviser,  Mr.  Calthorp,  will 
organise  the  search,  and  I  offer  a  reward  of  a  hundred 
pounds  to  whatever  person  is  successful  in  it.  I  should 
like  it  to  begin  at  once" 

These  last  words  were  said  in  a  voice  slightly  raised, 
and  there  was  an  instant  stir  of  excitement  and  resolution 
among  the  men.  Culthorp  rose  and  stood  beside  Guy. 

"Very  good  indeed,"  he  said  as  the  group  of  servants 
broke  up  and  filed  out  of  the  hall.  The  two  young  men, 
the  housekeeper,  and  the  butler  were  left  alone. 

"Everything  in  the  house  must  give  way  until  we  find 
what  we  are  looking  for,"  said  Guy.  "  Mr.  Calthorp  and  I 
can  do  without  elaborate  meals,  Feltham,  and  the  men 
must  be  left  as  free  as  possible  to  do  what  they  can.  Some 
of  them  must  search  the  island  to-night,  and  to-morrow 
morning  we  will  get  what  help  we  can  from  the  other  side 
and  extend  our  ground.  This  must  be  a  distressing  blow 
to  you,  Mrs.  Cheetham,"  he  said  to  the  old  housekeeper, 
who  still  sat  in  her  high-backed  chair,  quietly  sobbing. 

The  old  lady  looked  up  at  him. 

"  It's  a  trouble,  and  it's  a  mystery,  Sir  Guy,"  she  said. 
"  I  don't  think  what  you  all  think." 

The  old  butler  pursed  his  lips. 

"  She  won't  have  it  that  Martin  stole  the  body,  sir,**  he 
said,  "though  I  tell  her  you  can't  shut  your  eyes  to  such 
facts  as  we've  got." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  tell  us  what  you  think  to-morrow 
morning,  Mrs.  Cheetham,"  said  Calthorp.  "  You  look  too 
tired  to  go  through  more  to-night.  You  had  better  go  to 
bed,"  he  said  to  Guy  when  the  housekeeper  had  left  them. 
"I  am  just  going  out  to  set  the  men  to  work.  We  can 
leave  the  rest  till  to-morrow.** 


AT  THE   END  OF  THE  JOURNEY.         61 

14 1  haven't  got  the  brains  to  do  any  more  to-night,"  said 
Guy  ;  and  indeed  the  thronging  surprises  and  events  of  the 
day  had  made  him  ready  to  drop  with  fatigue,  though 
Calthorp  looked  as  keen  and  resourceful  as  when  he  had 
entered  his  office  in  London  fifteen  hours  before. 

So  the  search  began,  and  all  through  the  summer  night 
lights  twinkled  among  the  trees  of  the  island,  and  voices 
called  to  one  another. 


CHAPTER    VL 
tuts.  CHEETHAM'S  THEORY. 

GUT  slept  dreamlessly  and  awoke  the  next  morning  to 
find  the  sun  streaming  into  his  room  and  old  Feltham 
stropping  his  razors  at  the  dressing  table. 

"  Half  past  seven,  Sir  Guy,"  he  said.  '*  There's  nought 
been  found  yet,  sir,  but  Mr.  Calthorp  has  been  up  this  last 
hour  and  gone  over  to  the  other  side." 

Guy  sprang  out  of  bed,  all  his  fatigue  slept  off,  and  stood 
at  the  open  window  as  Feltham  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  It  was  a  glorious  sight  that  met  his  eyes.  The  wide 
gardens,  the  flower- laden  terraces,  the  glittering  cascade, 
and  the  blown  spray  from  the  sprouting  fountains  lay 
beneath  him,  and,  spread  out  like  a  carpet  of  silver,  the 
lake  gleamed  in  the  sun,  hemmed  in  by  the  dark  sloping 
woodlands  and  the  purple  hills  beyond.  What  the  scene 
lacked  of  moonlit  mystery  it  gained  tenfold  by  the  riotous 
profusion  of  blossom  and  colour  and  the  exhilarating  fresh- 
ness of  the  June  morning.  The  horror  of  the  previous 
night  was  gone,  and  its  place  taken  by  an  impatient  longing 
to  have  this  disagreeable  mystery  cleared  up,  so  that  the 
dead  should  no  longer  have  power  to  keep  from  the  living 
the  full  enjoyment  of  ceded  rights.  The  search  must,  of 
course,  be  diligently  carried  out,  but  there  were  other 
things  to  think  about  and  settle,  and  Guy  thought  much  of 
the  future  and  what  should  come  after  this  gloomy  dis- 
turbance should  be  cleared  away  as  he  dressed  quickly,  with 


MRS.  CHEETHAM'S   THEORY.  63 

half  an  eye  ever  on  the  entrancing  scene  framed  by  the 
open  window. 

He  found  Calthorp  waiting  for  him  in  the  breakfast 
parlour,  a  room  on  the  north  side  of  the  house,  looking 
through  latticed  windows  on  to  a  yew-enclosed  Dutch 
garden.  After  the  sunshine  on  gleaming  water  and  tossing 
roses  the  outlook  was  depressing,  and  Calthorp's  face,  as  he 
bade  him  a  grave  "Good-morning,"  did  little  to  warm  the 
solemn  chill. 

"No  luck,"  said  Calthorp,  shortly,  as  a  footman  with 
tired  eyes  brought  in  the  silver  dishes  ;  "  but  I've  set  them 
to  work  on  the  other  side.  Something  ought  to  happen  in 
the  course  of  the  day.  We  shall  have  to  interview  some 
more  people  after  breakfast.  You've  sent  for  the  other 
lodge-keepers,  have  you  ? "  he  asked  the  footman. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  they  will  be  here  at  nine  o'clock." 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once,"  said  Calthorp,  when 
the  servant  had  left  the  room,  "  that  I  have  received  a  dis- 
turbing piece  of  news  this  morning.  It  may  throw  an 
altogether  different  light  on  this  affair." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Guy. 

"  I've  had  a  wire  from  Sir  Roderick's  stockbrokers  in 
answer  to  my  letter  of  yesterday.  Here  it  is." 

Guy  took  the  proffered  telegram.  "  Sir  Roderick  Bertram," 
it  ran,  "  sold  out  last  securities  in  our  hands  six  months 
ago.  Has  purchased  none  through  us  since.  Letter  follows. 
Temple,  Quality." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  asked  Guy,  in  utter  amazement. 

"We  shall  know  more  when  the  letter  comes,"  said 
Calthorp, "  which  will  be  at  two  o'clock.  In  the  meantime 
I  don't  know." 

"  But  what  can  it  mean  ?  Haven't  you  formed  any 
theories  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Watson,  I  have,"  replied  Calthorp,  cracking 


64  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

an  egg.  "But,  like  Sherlock  Holmes,  whom  I  am  said 
to  resemble,  I  prefer  to  keep  them  to  myself  until  I  am 
sure  they  are  right.  You  will  then  have  them  in  the  fullest 
detail,  whether  you  wish  it  or  no." 

"  I  wish  you'd  be  serious,  Dick.  Do  you  think  he  can 
possibly  have  got  rid  of  all  that  enormous  amount  of 
property  ?  " 

"  Come  now,  Watson,"  said  Calthorp,  "  you  shall  pro- 
pound your  own  theories,  and  I  will  scoff  at  them.  What 
could  he  have  done  ?  " 

"  He  might  have  reinvested  through  another  firm." 

"Quite  so.  But  why  should  he?  Messrs.  Temple  and 
Quality  are  a  firm  of  the  highest  repute,  and  I  happen  to 
know  that  old  Mr.  Temple  and  Sir  Roderick  were  friends 
in  their  youth.  Why  should  he  have  gone  to  another 
stockbroker  ?  Besides,  if  he  had  they  would  probably  have 
mentioned  the  name  of  the  other  firm.  Try  again,  Watson." 

"  He  might  have  had  some  outside  scheme  in  which  he 
was  interested." 

"  Not  bad.  But  remember  that  his  income  can  never 
have  been  less  than  forty  or  fifty  thousand  a  year,  and  must 
lately  have  been  a  great  deal  more.  What  scheme  could 
any  man  get  rid  of  over  a  million  on  that  all  the  world 
isn't  sure  to  hear  of  ?  That  won't  do." 

"  Perhaps  he  turned  all  his  property  into  golden  sovereigns 
and  threw  them  into  the  lake." 

"Perhaps  he  did.  In  that  case  we  will  drag  the  lake. 
We  shall  probably  have  to  drag  it  in  any  case.  But  I  don't 
think  he  did  that.  I  will  be  generous  to  you,  Watson,  and 
give  you  two  words,  which  you  may  write  upon  the  tables 
of  your  heart  until  the  time  comes  to  produce  them.  Port- 
able property.  Now  I've  gone  a  good  deal  further  than  I 
should  by  all  the  rules  of  the  game,  and  I  shall  say  no 
more." 


MRS.  CHEETHAM'S  THEORY.  65 

**  Portable  property  !  "  echoed  Guy.  "  And  you  think 
Martin  has  gone  off  with  it  ?  " 

"  Look  here,  Watson,  don't  you  say  anything  sensible  !  " 
said  Calthorp.  "  That  isn't  your  role.  Now  I  am  going  to 
ring  and  ask  them  to  tell  Mrs.  Cheetham  to  come  here. 
4  Step  this  way  '  is,  I  believe,  the  proper  expression."  And 
he  did  solemnly  tell  the  servant  who  answered  the  bell  to 
44  ask  Mrs.  Cheetham  kindly  to  step  this  way." 

Mrs.  Cheetham  made  her  appearance  with  no  delay,  and, 
accommodated  with  a  seat,  was  asked  to  explain  her  ideas 
as  to  the  disappearance  of  Martin.  Her  agitation  of  the 
previous  night  had  left  her,  and  she  seemed  a  very 
self-possessed  and  capable  old  lady. 

She  scorned  the  idea  that  Martin  would  have  stolen  the 
body  of  his  master  for  the  purpose  of  levying  blackmail. 

"  I've  lived  in  this  house  with  Robert  Martin  for  thirty 
years,  sir,"  she  said.  "  He  was  devoted  to  Sir  Roderick's 
service.  There  was  nothing  he  wouldn't  have  done  for  him. 
To  think  of  him  dishonouring  his  master's  corpse !  I 
wouldn't  believe  it  not  if  I  were  to  see  it  with  my  own 
eyes." 

"But  there's  Feltham,"  said  Guy.  "He  has  been  here 
as  long  as  you  have,  hasn't  he  ?  He  has  no  difficulty  in 
believing  it." 

The  old  lady  drew  her  lips  together.  "  I  shouldn't  be 
the  one  to  say  a  word  against  Mr.  Feltham,"  she  said. 
44  To  my  remembrance  I've  never  had  a  cross  word  from 
him  all  the  time  we've  been  in  service  here  together,  and  I 
couldn't  say  the  same  of  Martin.  But  it  isn't  difficult  to 
believe,  Sir  Guy,  that  two  men  in  the  positions  in  the  house 
that  they  filled  should  be  a  bit  jealous  of  one  another. 
Feltham  was  born  and  bred  on  the  estate,  and  was  in 
service  here  when  Sir  Roderick  was  born.  Martin  was  Sir 
Roderick's  man  in  London,  before  ever  he  came  in  for 

H.M.  P 


66  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

Menilees,  and  ever  since  my  lady  died  has  been  getting 
more  and  more  in  with  Sir  Roderick.  Feltham  felt  that  he 
was  in  the  second  place,  when,  perhaps,  he  ought  to  have 
been  in  the  first,  and  he  hasn't  felt  over-friendly  to  Martin, 
I  know,  though  I'm  far  from  saying  that  there  was  bad 
blood  between  them,  or  that  he'd  say  a  thing  of  Martin  if 
he  didn't  believe  it.  But  he'd  believe  more  than  I  should 
by  a  good  deal." 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  was  Martin  ?  "  asked  Calthorp. 

"  A  masterful  man,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Cheetham,  decisively, 
"  and  a  man  that  kept  his  own  counsel.  I've  known  him  for 
all  these  years,  but  I  couldn't  tell  you  in  every  case  what 
he  would  do  and  what  he  wouldn't  do,  like  I  could  of 
Feltham.  But  there  is  one  thing  I  know  he  wouldn't  do, 
and  if  you  will  take  my  word  for  it,  sir,  you  may  save 
yourself  a  lot  of  trouble.  He  wouldn't  be  the  man  I've 
known  for  thirty  years,  in  spite  of  many  faults,  if  he  could 
steal  his  master's  body  so  as  to  make  money  out  of  it." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Calthorp,  after  a  short  pause,  "  we 
have  listened  to  what  you  have  said,  and  we  will  give  it 
due  weight.  What  do  you  think  has  really  happened  ? 
Have  you  formed  any  opinion  in  your  own  mind  ?  " 

"  I  have,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Cheetham,  quietly. 

"  We  should  like  you  to  tell  us  what  it  is." 

"  If  you  had  asked  me  the  question  yesterday,"  said  Mrs. 
Cheetham,  "  I  couldn't  have  said  anything.  I  was  too 
much  upset  by  the  dreadful  thing  that  had  happened.  But, 
lying  awake  all  last  night  as  I  did,  and  turning  things  ovei 
in  my  mind,  I  got  light,  and  everything  became  clear." 
She  paused,  and  seemed  to  be  collecting  her  thoughts.  The 
two  men  waited  for  her  in  silence.  . 

"You  know  what  made  Sir  Roderick  shut  himself  up 
here,  sir,  going  on  for  twenty-five  years  ago,  and  never  set 
his  foot  outside  the  park  gates  from  that  day  to  this  ?  It 


MRS.  CHEETHAM'S  THEORY.  67 

was  the  death  of  his  young  wife  and  her  baby  boy.  They 
were  at  some  place  in  Italy  at  the  time,  and  Martin  and 
her  ladyship's  maid  were  with  them.  The  mother  and 
child  were  buried  there.  Sir  Roderick  wasn't  like  a  man 
who  would  go  almost  out  of  his  mind  with  grief  at  first  for 
a  loss  like  that  and  then  come  round  and  forget  all  about  it. 
He  came  home  here  after  he  had  buried  his  wife  and  child, 
and  everything  went  on  as  before.  Do  you  know,  sir,  that 
for  five-and-twenty  years  two  places  were  laid  at  every 
meal,  and  for  five-and-twenty  years  only  one  of  them  was 
filled  r 

Guy  and  Calthorp  looked  at  each  other  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Do  you  know,"  continued  Mrs.  Cheetham,  "  that  when 
Sir  Roderick  came  home  from  Italy  not  a  thing  was  altered 
in  the  household  arrangements  and  not  a  servant  was 
turned  off  ?  Do  you  know  that  her  ladyship's  rooms  up- 
stairs are  left  just  as  they  were  when  she  used  them,  as  I'll 
show  you,  Sir  Guy,  when  you  are  pleased  to  go  round  the 
house,  and  that  the  drawing-rooms  and  other  rooms  which 
have  not  been  used  for  five-and-twenty  years  were  always  kept 
open  and  filled  with  fresh  flowers  ?  Sir  Roderick  loved  his 
wife,  gentlemen,  as  few  men  in  this  world  love  anybody 
but  themselves.  He  lived  here  alone  with  her  memory,  as 
you  might  say,  and  it  was  as  fresh  with  him,  poor  gentle- 
man, when  he  lay  on  his  deathbed  as  it  was  the  day  he 
buried  her  and  his  little  son." 

"  And  you  think — "  said  Calthorp,  as  the  old  lady  came 
to  another  pause. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Cheetham,  "  that  Sir  Roderick  gave 
Martin  strict  orders  that  his  body  was  to  be  taken  over  to 
Italy  and  buried  with  her  ladyship." 

Calthorp  sat  silent  with  a  frown  of  consideration  on  his 
face. 

F  a 


68  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"But  why  all  this  mystery  and  secrecy?"  asked  Guy, 
"  Your  theory  doesn't  explain  that,  Mrs.  Cheetham." 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,  Sir  Guy,"  she  answered.  "  But 
through  living  so  many  years  shut  up  here  .with  Sir 
Roderick,  all  I  can  say  is  that,  however  it  may  seem  to  a 
stranger,  begging  your  pardon  for  calling  you  so,  it  doesn't 
appear  to  me  strange  that  Sir  Roderick  should  have  given 
orders  that  it  should  be  carried  out  like  that.  And  what- 
ever Martin's  faults  may  have  been,  he  would  have  carried 
out  Sir  Roderick's  orders  to  the  last  letter.  You  may  hear 
of  him  again  as  likely  as  not  when  he's  carried  out  his 
instructions  ;  I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  But,  whether  or  no, 
I  feel  sure  in  my  own  mind  that,  whatever  he  has  done,  it 
was  under  instructions  from  Sir  Roderick." 

Calthorp  still  retained  his  thoughtful  frown.  "What 
about  the  gardener,  Braithwaite  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Cheetham,  "you  see,  Martin  couldn't 
have  done  everything  by  himself.  He  must  have  had  help. 
And  it  is  my  belief  that  James  Braithwaite  was  trained  up  to 
act  with  him  when  occasion  should  arise.  He  was  just  the  one 
that  would  have  been  chosen,  a  young  man  that  made  friends 
with  nobody ;  and  there  were  many  opportunities  of  Martin's 
talking  with  him,  and  Sir  Roderick,  too,  for  that  matter, 
without  causing  remark,  when  he  was  rowing  the  boat." 

"  Just  answer  me  one  question,  Mrs.  Cheetham,"  broke  in 
Calthorp.  "  Should  you  say,  knowing  Sir  Roderick  as  you 
did  both  before  her  ladyship's  death  and  afterwards — should 
you  say  that  his  mind  was  affected  by  his  loss  ? " 

"  I  should  say,  sir,"  replied  the  old  lady,  "  that  any  ideas 
he  had  before  my  lady's  death  got  more  firmly  fixed  in  his 
mind  and  grew  stronger  as  the  years  went  by,  and  that  he 
had  no  more  room  for  new  ones.  In  everything  else  his 
mind  was  as  clear  as  yours,  sir." 

•*  Was  he  gloomy  or  depressed  ?  * 


MRS.  CHEETHAM'S  THEORY.  69 

Mrs.  Cheetham  smiled,  almost  laughed.  "  Never,  sir,"  she 
said,  "not  from  the  first  day  he  came  back  from  abroad.  Why, 
he  lived  in  this  house,  sir,  except  that  he  never  saw  company, 
just  the  same  as  any  gentleman  might.  We  all  got  so  used  to 
it,  it  made  us  angry  when  people  outside  used  to  talk  as  if 
he  was  like  a  curiosity.  He'd  read  his  books  and  his  papers- 
boxes  of  books  would  come  down  from  London,  and  I  should 
think  all  the  papers  that's  printed  ;  he'd  write  for  hours  in 
his  library,  and  he  took  a  wonderful  interest  in  his  garden. 
He'd  be  out  of  doors  in  all  weathers  directing  the  gardeners. 
He  never  hid  himself  away.  He  often  used  to  laugh  at  new 
servants,  who  would  sometimes  be  afraid  of  meeting  him^ 
and  they  would  laugh  themselves  when  they  had  once  seen 
him  just  like  any  other  gentleman.  He  would  see  people  on 
business,  though  not  often  gentlemen  of  late  years  :  I  will 
say  that ;  but  with  working  men  and  such-like  he  was  just 
as  anybody  else.  Oh,  yes,  sir,  Sir  Roderick  may  have  been 
made  into  a  mystery  outside,  but  he  wasn't  one  to  them  as 
knew  him." 

"  And  yet  you  said  that  it  would  not  seem  strange  to  you 
that  he  should  give  orders  for  the  disposal  of  his  body  after 
his  death  in  the  way  you  have  suggested,"  said  Calthorp. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  daresay  I  have  talked  too  much,"  said  Mrs. 
Cheetham,  "  and  I'm  sure  I've  talked  a  long  time.  In  his 
daily  life  Sir  Roderick  was  as  I  have  said.  In  all  that  had 
to  do  with  the  death  of  her  ladyship  he  was  as  I  have  said, 
too.  You  must  put  the  two  things  together  if  you  can. 
And  now,  with  your  leave,  I  will  go  to  my  duties." 

"  That's  a  clever  old  lady,"  said  Guy,  when  the  door  had 
closed  upon  her.  "  What  do  you  think  of  her  theory  ?  " 

"  It  fits  the  facts  as  far  as  we  know  them,"  said  Calthorp 
"but  it  is  just  as  likely  to  be  wrong  as  right.  We  shall  be 
able  to  test  it  to  some  extent  when  we  see  the  lodge- keepers, 
which  will  be  in  a  few  minutes.  After  that,  I  am  going  to 


70  THE    HOUSE   OF  MERRILEES. 

look  through  the  papers.  Feltham  says  that  Sir  Roderick  did 
all  his  business  with  this  fellow  Martin,  who  was  more  secre- 
tary than  servant,  in  the  room  they  call  his  dressing-room,  and 
all  his  business  papers  and  books  are  there.  I  must  go  over 
them,  and  I  have  wired  to  the  bank  at  Keswick  asking 
them  to  send  someone  over,  so  that  we  shall  see  how 
matters  stand  there.  Feltham  says  that  Sir  Roderick  did 
all  his  banking  at  Keswick,  so  that  we  shall  have  no 
difficulty  in  getting  at  the  secret  of  what  has  become  of  the 
investments." 

"  What  a  clever  fellow  you  are,  Dick  1  **  said  Guy. 
"  You've  thought  about  everything." 

"  Thank  you,  '/Vatson,"  replied  Calthorp.  **  And  now  for 
the  lodge-keepers  I* 

The  examination  of  the  lodge-keepers  elicited  one  im- 
portant fact.  Each  of  the  five  gates  leading  out  of  the 
park  was  kept  locked,  and  it  would  have  been  impossible 
for  anyone  to  get  through  them  without  the  assistance  of 
the  gatekeepers.  In  one  gateway,  however, — that  on  the 
north  side  of  the  park,  and  furthest  away  from  the  house 
and  lake, — there  was  a  little  porter's  gate  which  was  kept 
locked,  but  to  which  the  servant  Martin  was  known  to  have 
the  key.  The  man  and  his  wife  who  lived  in  the  lodge 
had  not  heard  anyone  go  by  during  the  night,  but  this 
proved  nothing,  as  they  slept  at  the  back  of  the  cottage, 
and  the  little  gate  opened  on  to  the  grass  of  the  park  and 
not  on  to  the  road,  so  that  anyone  using  it  could  easily 
have  done  so  without  making  any  noise.  This  north  gate, 
which  led  to  an  unfrequented  road,  little  more  than  a  cart 
track  winding  among  lonely  hills,  was  hardly  ever  used, 
and  lay  a  full  mile  away  from  the  house.  The  old  butler 
had  forgotten  the  very  existence  of  the  postern  gate,  and 
was  full  of  apologies  for  his  oversight. 

"  It  makes  very  little  difference,"  said  Calthorp.     "  We 


MRS.  CHEETHAM'S  THEORY.  71 

know  that  they  must  hr  ve  got  out  of  the  park  somehow,  as 
they  are  not  here ;  and  now  we  know  how  they  got  out. 
That's  all." 

"  It  makes  this  difference,**  said  Guy  when  they  were 
alone  again.  "  We  thought  they  could  not  have  taken  the 
body  with  them,  but  now  we  know  they  could  have  done. 
Mrs.  Cheetham's  theory  seems  to  fit  in." 

"  How  do  you  suppose,"  said  Calthorp,  "  that  two  men 
are  going  to  carry  a  dead  body  a  mile  to  the  gate,  to  begin 
with  ?  They  say  there  are  no  marks  of  wheels,  and  you 
heard  me  ask  the  width  of  the  gate.  Nothing  with  wheels 
could  have  got  through." 

"  It  is  just  possible,"  said  Guy,  **  that  they  might  have 
carried  the  body  with  great  difficulty  as  far  as  the  gate,  and 
had  some  sort  of  conveyance  waiting  for  them  out  of  earshot." 

"That  means  accomplices,"  said  Calthorp,  "and  how 
could  they  have  got  hold  of  them  in  the  time?  At  any 
rate,  we  shall  be  able  to  find  out  whether  a  cart  did  pass 
down  that  road  last  night  when  we  get  the  police  here  to 
make  inquiries.  The  road  runs  for  seven  miles  without  as 
much  as  a  footpath  branching  from  it,  and  there  arc 
cottages  and  farmhouses  scattered  along  it  at  intervals. 
Somebody  must  have  heard  a  cart  if  there  was  one.  That 
is  the  way  these  two  rascals  must  have  gone,  anyhow ;  and 
it  is  quite  possible  something  may  have  been  seen  of  them. 
That  is  the  sort  of  clue  your  local  constable  can  follow  up. 
It  doesn't  take  much  brain  power.  But  there's  one  thing 
I'm  pretty  sure  of.  We  have  got  to  look  for  Sir  Roderick's 
body  inside  the  park,  and  for  the  two  men  who  stole  it 
outside." 

"  And  the  blackmail  ?  "  asked  Guy. 

"  The  demand  won't  come  from  Martin.  He's  playing  a 
bigger  game  than  that.  Mr.  Braithwaite  I  am  not  so  sur* 
of.  We  shall  see.  Ah,  here  is  the  post.** 


72  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

Feltham  had  brought  in  a  few  letters  and  a  pile  of  daily 
and  weekly  papers. 

"  Temple  and  Quality,"  said  Calthorp  as  he  broke  open 
an  envelope.  "  Hum  !  Ha  !  '  Very  shocked  to  hear  of  Sir 
Roderick  Bertram's  death.  One  of  our  oldest  clients.  Sir 
Roderick  had  put  all  his  securities  into  our  hands  on  suc- 
ceeding to  his  mother's  property.  Personal  friend  of  our 
Mr.  Temple.  Told  us  he  should  never  employ  another  firm. 
Frequently  gave  us  instructions  in  writing  to  make  new 
purchases  and  change  investments.  Showed  great  j  udgment. 
Value  of  securities  eventually  little  short  of  a  million  and 
a  half.  Began  to  sell  out  about  fifteen  years  ago  and 
never  repurchased.  Large  holding  Mount  Ophir  Gold 
Mine  disposed  of  last  December  and  account  finally  closed. 
No  knowledge  of  any  other  investments.'  Well,  that  does 
not  take  us  much  further.  But  you  can't  make  away  with  a 
million  and  a  half  in  fifteen  years  without  leaving  some- 
thing to  show  for  it.  Here  is  a  letter  for  Sir  Roderick. 
We  had  better  open  it,  I  think." 

He  did  so,  and  they  read  it  together.  It  ran  as 
follows  :— 

"4,  HOSPITAL  COURT, 

"  HATTON  GARDEN,  W.C. 
"To  SIR  RODERICK  BERTRAM,  BART. 

"  SIR, — We  have  at  length  concluded  negotiations  with 
our  friends  at  Calcutta,  and  have  secured  a  firm  offer  of 
'  The  King's  Jewel '  for  £34,000,  which  we  shall  accept, 
subject  to  your  approval,  that  being  a  thousand  pounds 
less  than  the  sum  you  authorised  us  to  offer.  The  nego- 
tiations must  be  kept  secret,  as  the  Maharajah  has  only 
been  induced  to  sell  under  great  pressure,  and  is  anxious 
that  it  shall  not  become  known  that  he  has  done  so.  Our 
friends  have  been  permitted  to  examine  the  Jewel,  and  are 
of  opinion  that  if  it  were  broken  up  the  separate  stones 


MRS.  CHEETHAM'S  THEORY.  73 

would  fetch  50  per  cent,  more  in  the  open  market  than  the 
Maharajah  is  prepared  to  accept  for  the  whole.  We  hope 
to  gain  your  approval  for  what  we  regard  as  the  most 
satisfactory  negotiation  we  have  had  the  honour  of 
carrying  through  for  you. 

*  We  are,  Sir, 

"  Your  obedient  Servants, 

"ROSENTHAL    &    C*." 

The  letter  bore  the  date  of  the  previous  day. 

"  Now  we  have  it,"  said  Calthorp  tersely.  "  You  will 
remember  the  two  words  I  impressed  upon  your  memory, 
Watson.  Portable  property." 

Guy  looked  merely  puzzled. 

"  I  see  it  all  now,"  continued  Calthorp,  "  Sir  Roderick 
is  the  American  Purchaser." 

"  Do  you  mind  talking  plainly  ?  "  suggested  Guy. 

"  Not  at  all.  I  prefer  it.  And  when  I  have  finished  it 
you  will  kindly  say,  '  But,  Holmes,  this  is  marvellous ! '  I 
shall  ask  for  no  other  reward.  Let  me  tell  you  then  that 
for  many  years  past,  whenever  there  has  been  a  great  sale 
of  jewels,  the  best  have  invariably  been  bought  by  a 
mysterious  personage  known  to  the  trade  as  The  American 
Purchaser.  No  one  has  ever  seen  him,  and  nobody  has 
ever  seen  the  jewels  again  that  he  is  reported  to  have 
bought,  either  in  America  or  elsewhere.  The  mystery,  I 
believe,  has  caused  some  discussion  amongst  the  diamond 
merchants  and  others  connected  with  the  purchase  of 
precious  stones.  Messrs.  Rosenthal  &  Co.  seem  to  have 
kept  their  counsel  well.  I  have  no  manner  of  doubt  that 
Sir  Roderick  is  the  mysterious  collector,  and  has  been 
engaged  for  the  last  fifteen  years  in  turning  his  enormous 
fortune  into  the  most  portable  form  of  portable  property." 

"  But  why  on  earth  should  he  have  done  that  ?  " 


74  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  I  don't  know.  And  it  doesn't  much  matter.  But  I  am 
afraid,  very  much  afraid,  that  the  fact  accounts  for  the 
disappearance  of  our  friend  Martin.** 

"  You  think  that " 

"  He  has  gone  off  with  them,  or  as  many  as  he  could  carry. 
I  fear  there  is  very  little  doubt  of  it.  However,  we  shall  soon 
know.  What  we  have  got  to  do  now  is  to  find  the  place 
where  these  jewels  were  kept.  I  will  ring  for  Feltham." 

"  Is  there  a  strong  room  or  a  big  safe  anywhere  in  the 
house  where  valuable  property  could  be  kept  ?  "  Calthorp 
asked  the  butler  when  he  appeared. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  replied  at  once.  "  There  is  a  big  safe  in 
the  room  Martin  slept  in.  It  was  put  in  a  good  many 
years  ago." 

*'  About  fifteen  years  ago  ?  ** 

**  I  should  think  that  would  be  about  it,  sir.* 

"  Do  you  know  what  was  kept  in  it  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  not  the  silver,  for  we  have  a  strong  room 
downstairs  for  that.  I  don't  know  what  the  one  upstairs 
was  used  for.  Martin  had  the  keys  of  it.  But  I  didn't  tell 
you,  sir.  All  his  keys  are  laid  on  the  table  in  Sir  Roderick's 
dressing-room." 

"You  had  better  take  us  there,  then,  and  afterwards 
show  us  where  the  safe  is." 

Feltham  led  the  way  up  the  broad  marble  staircase,  and 
along  a  corridor  hung  with  pictures,  and  full  from  end  to  end 
of  old  furniture  ranged  along  the  walls,  French  and  Indian 
and  Chinese  cabinets,  Elizabethan  chairs,  tables  and  glass 
cupboards  set  out  with  rare  china,  and  all  arranged  with 
such  skill  and  taste  that  nothing  looked  out  of  place,  and 
nothing  crowded.  At  the  end  of  the  corridor  was  a  heavy 
mahogany  door  leading  to  the  west  wing,  which  contained 
a  complete  suite  of  rooms  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  house, 
and  approached  by  a  separate  staircase. 


MRS.  CHEETHAM'S  THEORY.  75 

"  These  are  my  lady's  rooms,"  said  Feltham,  indicating 
two  closed  doors  on  the  right.  "  Sir  Roderick's  are  above. 
This  is  the  old  part  of  the  house.  The  front  only  is  new, 
to  fit  in  with  the  rest." 

They  mounted  another  staircase  to  the  second  floor,  and 
Feltham  opened  a  door  and  led  them  into  a  large  room 
facing  south,  its  windows  closely  shuttered.  He  let  in  the 
light  and  opened  one  of  the  windows.  The  wing  was  set 
back  from  the  main  front  of  the  house  by  the  width  of  a 
stone  balcony,  which  ran  along  it.  The  room  was  half 
library,  half  morning-room,  and  had  the  air  of  having  been 
recently  occupied.  All  the  furniture  was  old  and  rich.  In 
one  of  the  windows  stood  a  large  Louis  Seize  writing-table 
covered  with  orderly  piles  of  documents,  and  near  it  against 
the  wall  was  a  massive  ebony  cabinet  with  numerous 
drawers  and  partitions.  In  the  very  middle  of  the  writing- 
table,  on  the  blotting  pad,  lay  a  bunch  of  keys. 

"  That  is  Sir  Roderick's  bedroom,"  said  Feltham  in  a  low 
voice,  pointing  to  a  door  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  **  Will 
you  go  in,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  now,"  said  Guy  hastily. 

"  These  are  the  keys,"  said  the  old  butler.  **  No  one  has 
been  in  since  Mrs.  Cheetham  and  I  locked  the  doors." 

Calthorp  took  the  bunch  of  keys.  They  were  bright,  and 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  in  constant  use.  "  Now  show  us 
Martin's  room  and  the  safe,"  he  said. 

Feltham  led  them  through  a  door  at  the  far  end  of  the 
corridor,  and  they  found  themselves  on  a  little  stone  landing 
from  which  a  turret  stair  led  both  up  and  down.  The  walls 
were  of  great  thickness,  and  were  pierced  with  lancet 
windows.  *'  This  is  the  oldest  part  of  the  house,"  he  said. 
Then  he  took  them  through  another  door  into  an  oak- 
panelled  passage  and  down  a  step  into  a  dark  room  on  the 
left.  It  was  furnished  as  a  bedroom,  and  on  one  side  of  it 


76  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

part  of  the  panelling  had  been  removed,  and  in  its  place 
stared  the  ugly  fronts  of  two  great  green-painted  doors  with 
brass  handles. 

"  You  may  go  now,  Feltham,"  said  Calthorp.  "  Sir  Guy 
and  I  are  going  to  look  into  the  safe,  if  the  key  is  here,  and 
afterwards  I  am  going  to  examine  the  papers  in  the  dressing 
room.  You  will  find  me  there  if  anybody  comes." 

The  butler  took  his  departure  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  "  Now  for  the  key  of  the  mystery!  "  said  Calthorp. 

He  hit  upon  the  right  key  almost  at  once,  turned  it  in  the 
lock,  and  twisted  the  brass  handle.  The  great  door  swung 
slowly  open. 

The  safe  was  filled  with  tiers  of  baize-lined  shelves. 
They  were  absolutely  empty. 


CHAPTER  Vtt 

MR.   PHIPP   EXPLAINS. 

THE  two  young  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"  It  is  only  what  we  expected,"  said  Calthorp,  shortly. 

"  Yes,  but  it's  devilish  awkward,"  said  Guy.  "  According 
to  what  we  have  learnt,  this  safe  contained  the  whole  of 
my  cousin's  fortune,  and  it  has  all  disappeared.  What  am 
I  to  do  ?  " 

**  We  shall  get  it  back,"  said  Calthorp,  confidently.  "  I 
don't  suppose  Martin  has  walked  off  with  a  million  and  a 
half's  worth  of  precious  stones  for  the  pleasure  of  looking 
at  them.  Directly  he  tries  to  dispose  of  any  of  them  we  shall 
nab  him,  if  we  don't  nab  him  before.  And  after  all  it  isn't 
so  bad  as  it  might  be,  Guy.  We  know  there  are  thirty-four 
thousand  pounds  at  least — thirty-five,  because  Sir  Roderick 
was  prepared  to  pay  that  for  the  jewel  Rosenthals  wrote 
about ;  and  there  must  be  some  more.  You  must  remem- 
ber that  this  place  had  to  be  kept  up  anyhow,  and  whatever 
he  has  done  with  the  bulk  of  his  fortune  he  must  have  left 
himself  enough  for  that.  He  was  not  an  old  man — some 
years  short  of  sixty — and  he  cannot  have  expected  to  die 
just  yet.  He  seems  to  have  had  perfect  health.  And  you've 
got  this  house.  The  things  in  it  alone,  from  what  I  can 
see,  must  be  worth  a  fortune." 

Guy  turned  away. 

"  It  is  an  extraordinary  state  of  things,"  he  said.  *'  I 
wonder  if  anything  like  it  has  ever  happened  before  ?  ** 

44 1  should  say  not.    Now  I'm  going  through  the  books 


78  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

and  papers  in  the  dressing  room.  You  might  run  out  and 
play  for  a  bit.  I'll  let  you  know  if  anything  turns  up." 

Guy  went  downstairs  and  out  into  the  bright  sunlight 
with  a  feeling  of  relief  at  being  able  to  throw  off  for  a  time 
the  incubus  of  gloom  and  mystery  which  pervaded  the 
house.  Calthorp,  using  his  busy  brain  upstairs,  would 
surely  be  able  to  extract  some  comfort  from  the  papers  he 
was  examining.  Calthorp  inspired  confidence,  and  it  was 
impossible  to  move  about  such  a  house  as  this,  every  corner 
apparently  crammed  with  objects  of  worth  and  beauty,  or 
to  wander  through  these  gardens  of  Paradise,  without  a 
conviction  that  it  was  impossible  for  Martin  or  anyone 
else,  whatever  their  intentions,  to  carry  away  with  them 
the  means  of  supplying  the  arteries  of  such  a  place  with 
life. 

The  terraces  and  fountains  he  left  to  make  fuller 
acquaintance  with  on  another  occasion,  and  explored  the 
rest  of  the  island.  The  woods  which  clothed  the  steep 
bank  on  the  east  and  sheltered  the  house  from  view  of  the 
shore  had  been  cleared  away  to  a  great  extent  over  the 
rest  of  the  island,  which  must  have  covered  forty  or  fifty 
acres.  On  the  south-eastern  spur,  which  sloped  more 
gently  to  the  water,  they  had  been  left  with  broad  grass 
paths  winding  through  them,  and  rhododendrons  and  other 
flowering  shrubs  planted  among  the  trees,  while  the  ground 
was  carpeted  with  foxgloves  and  groups  of  woodland 
flowers,  of  which  Guy  dimly  perceived  that,  although 
the  effect  was  that  of  careless  nature,  the  beauty  of  colour 
and  grouping  was  that  of  finished  art. 

Behind  the  house  was  the  Dutch  garden,  with  a  broad 
opening  in  the  yew  hedge  leading  on  to  a  great  level  lawn 
with  a  noble  group  of  cedars  at  the  further  end.  On  the 
west  was  a  stone  wall  standing  deep  in  a  brilliant  border 
of  hardy  flowers,  with  a  creeper-covered  gateway  leading 


MR.  PHIPP  EXPLAINS.  79 

to  enclosed  kitchen  gardens,  and  lower  down,  near  the 
water,  what  amounted  almost  to  a  little  hamlet  of 
gardeners'  cottages,  outbuildings,  and  glass-houses.  The 
lawn  melted  almost  imperceptibly  through  pierced  belts  of 
shrubs  and  a  line  of  noble  trees  into  a  wilderness  of  wild 
beauty.  Broad  mown  paths  wound  like  rivers  down  the 
undulating  ground  to  the  lake,  amongst  rough  grass  filled 
with  great  groups  of  free-growing  flowers  and  planted  with 
every  imaginable  rare  and  beautiful  tree  and  shrub  that 
would  flourish  in  this  mild  northern  climate.  Some  of 
them  had  attained  to  a  great  height,  and  all  of  them 
looked  as  if  they  had  chosen  that  one  particular  place  to 
grow  in  and  no  other.  New  surprises  of  contrast  and 
colour  came  at  every  turn.  The  whole  wild  garden  was  a 
masterpiece  of  art  inspired  by  nature.  In  one  place  there 
was  a  little  lake,  studded  with  water-lilies  and  bordered 
with  iris,  a  tiny  island,  and  a  little  willow-shaded  bridge. 
Below  the  lake  there  was  a  sudden  entrance  to  a  sunk 
rock  garden,  filled  and  curtained  with  flowers  and  ferns ; 
below  that  a  stone  summer  house,  backed  by  a  crescent  of 
trees,  looking  over  a  little  lawn-bordered  bay  to  the  woods 
on  the  opposite  shore.  It  would  be  impossible  to  describe 
the  beauties  of  that  island  garden,  and  after  wandering 
over  it  for  an  hour  Guy  felt  that  he  had  only  gained  a 
mere  impression  of  its  glories.  But  coming  at  last  to  the 
south  terrace,  he  was  hailed  by  Calthorp  from  the  hall 
doorway,  and  turned  with  a  sigh  to  take  up  once  more  the 
problems  of  the  immediate  future. 

"  Mr.  Phipp,  the  bank  manager,  has  just  come,"  said 
Calthorp,  and  led  the  way  into  the  room  which  they  had 
first  entered  the  evening  before.  It  was  a  sort  of  ante- 
room to  the  great  library,  which  extended  all  along  the 
front  of  the  house  to  the  east  of  the  hall. 

Mr.  Phipp  proved    to   be   a  round-faced,  pink-cheeked 


8o  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

little  man,  who  made  valiant  efforts  to  accommodate  his 
indomitable  cheerfulness  to  the  exigencies  of  the  situation. 
He  was  dressed  in  black  from  top  to  toe,  and  looked  like  a 
cherub  in  mourning. 

"Very  dreadful  occurrence  this,  gentlemen,"  he  said 
when  Guy  and  Calthorp  had  introduced  themselves. 
"  Very  shocking.  It  has  cast  a  gloom  over  the  neighb'r'ood, 
I  assure  you,  a  positive  gloom." 

Mr.  Phipp  said  this  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  an 
enquiring  expression  in  his  eye,  like  one  who  hazards  a 
subtle  pleasantry. 

"  You  have  the  news  at  Keswick  ?  "  inquired  Calthorp. 

"  We  woke  up  to  it  this  morning,"  said  Mr.  Phipp. 
"  The  neighb'r'ood  is  in  a  bustle  about  it,  I  assure  you,  a 
positive  bustle.  A  gloomy  bustle,  of  course,"  he  added  in 
explanation.  "It  has  shocked  us  excessively,  positively 
horrified  us.  Are  the  jewels  safe,  gentlemen  ?  " 

This  inquiry  was  made  in  a  confidential  whisper,  and 
followed  the  expression  of  Mr.  Phipp's  horror  without  any 
intermediate  pause. 

"The  jewels  have  gone,"  replied  Calthorp. 

"I  said  so,"  said  Mr.  Phipp,  nodding  his  head  with  a 
knowing  air.  "  I  said  so  coming  along.  Not  out  loud, 
because  of  the  groom,  but  I  said  so." 

"Is  the  story  of  the  jewels  common  property  about 
here  ?  "  asked  Calthorp. 

"  Not  a  soul  knows  of  it  but  myself,"  replied  Mr.  Phipp, 
"not  a  single  living  soul,  sir — except  Mrs.  Phipp — my 
wife,  gentlemen." 

Mr.  Phipp  waved  a  hand  as  if  making  an  actual  intro- 
duction. Calthorp  bowed  gravely. 

"  Will  you  kindly  tell  us,"  he  said,  "  how  you  came  to 
know  about  the  jewels,  and  how  matters  stand  with  regard 
to  Sir  Roderick's  banking  account  ?  " 


MR  PHIPP  EXPLAINS  81 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Phipp,  producing  a  doubled  sheet 
of  foolscap  paper  from  his  breast  coat  pocket  and  unfolding 
it.  "  I  have  all  the  figures  here.  You  shall  have  the  whole 
story  from  the  beginning,  gentlemen." 

"Sir  Roderick  has  always  banked  with  you,  I  think,** 
said  Calthorp. 

"  He  has  banked  exclusively  with  us  for  a  little  over 
twenty-four  years,"  replied  Mr.  Phipp.  "  And  I  have  had 
the  honour  of  managing  the  Keswick  branch  of  our  bank 
for  the  whole  of  that  period.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  betraying 
no  confidence,  gentlemen,  if  I  say  that  it  was  owing  to  the 
request  of  Sir  Roderick,  whose  transactions  with  us  have 
been  large,  that  I  have  been  continued  in  this  position — 
at  some  increase  of  personal  emolument — instead  of  being 
advanced  to  a  more  important  branch. 

"  He  made  that  request  to  your  directors,  I  suppose  ?  ** 
said  Calthorp. 

"  That  was  it,  sir,  that  was  it,"  replied  Mr.  Phipp,  with 
amazing  cheerfulness,  apparently  rejoiced  at  being  so 
promptly  understood.  "  It  was  about  fifteen  years  ago 

when — when But  perhaps  1  had  better  begin  at  the 

beginning." 

The  bird- like  lift  of  the  little  round  head  invited  tolera- 
tion. "  I  can  do  it  so  much  better  in  my  own  way,"  it 
seemed  to  say.  Calthorp  nodded. 

"  Sir  Roderick  transferred  his  account  to  us  from  his 
London  bank,"  said  Mr.  Phipp,  "  when  he  first,  if  I  may 
use  the  expression,  bottled  himself  up  here.  I  should, 
perhaps,  say,  immured  himself  within  these  walls.  That 
was  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  March,  twenty-four  years 
ago.  I  had  just  been  appointed  manager  of  the  branch, 
and  the  transaction  was  naturally  a  somewhat  important 
one.  The  balance  in  our  hands  has  never  been  less  than 
five  thousand  pounds,  and  very  large  sums  indeed  have 

B.M. 


8a  THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

passed  through  our  books.  For  ten  years,  gentlemen,  I 
never  saw  Sir  Roderick.  Any  personal  business  that  re- 
quired to  be  done  was  effected  by  Martin,  his  confidential 
servant,  who  always  seemed  to  me,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to 
say  so,  a  man  who  held  himself  aloof  from  the — the  more 
expansive  moods  of  human  intercourse." 

"  Secretive  ?  "  suggested  Calthorp. 

Mr.  Phipp  balanced  the  adjective. 

"  Not  perhaps  precisely  that,"  he  said ; "  but — well,  I  will 
give  you  an  instance.  Mrs.  Phipp — my  wife,  gentlemen — 
having  the  natural  curiosity  of  her  sex — a  perfectly  amiable 
and  innocent  curiosity — and  being  interested  in  Sir  Roderick 
— what  woman,  knowing  his  story,  would  not  ? — Mrs.  Phipp 
asked  me  to  invite  Martin  to  share  our  mid-day  meal  with 
us,  some  day  when  he  should  be  over,  and  the  circumstances 
of  housekeeping  should  permit  of  it.  Our  dwelling-place 
is  over  the  offices  of  the  bank,  and  the  invitation  would  not 
seem  an  unnatural  one,  and  Martin  was  hardly  a  servant  in 
the  sense  that  our  own  two  domestics,  for  instance,  are 
servants.  We  could  entertain  him  without  derogating 
from  the  respect  due  to  us.  Well,  to  cut  a  long  story  short, 
I  advanced  the  invitation  on  a  certain  occasion.  The 
reply  I  received  was,  '  Thank  you,  Mr.  Phipp,  I  came  here 
on  business.  We'll  confine  ourselves  to  business,  if  it's  all 
the  same  to  you.'  Now,  was  that  friendly,  gentlemen? 
Was  it  courteous  ?  ** 

Guy  and  Calthorp  made  haste  to  agree  that  it  was 
neither.  Mr.  Phipp  put  behind  him  the  painful  memory 
of  his  rejected  hospitality. 

"Well,  that  was  Martin,"  he  said,  with  a  brisker  air, 
"  and  we  need  not  concern  ourselves  any  further  with  him 
for  the  present.  I  may  say  then  that  matters  went  on  in 
the  usual  way  for  about  ten  years.  The  income  from 
Sir  Roderick's  investments  was  paid  in  regularly  to  his 


MR.  PHIPP  EXPLAINS.  83 

account  with  us.  It  was  something  like  forty  thousand  a 
year  to  begin  with,  but  even  that  large  sum  soon  began  to 
increase,  because  Sir  Roderick  only  spent  about  half  of  it, 
and  the  rest  he  invested." 

"  How  on  earth  could  he  manage  to  spend  twenty 
thousand  a  year  in  the  way  he  lived  here  ?  "  asked  Guy. 

"  The  greater  part  of  it,  I  think,  went  in  purchases,"  said 
Mr.  Phipp.  "  Rare  books,  furniture,  pictures,  what  the 
French  call  objy  dar,  and  so  forth." 

"  That  is  so,"  said  Calthorp.  "  All  the  figures  are  in  the 
books  which  I  have  been  examining  upstairs." 

"  Ah,  then  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Phipp.  "  Yes,  Sir 
Roderick  was  a  great  buyer  of  objy  dar.  He  did  it  all 
through  Martin,  who  was  constantly  going  to  London  to 
attend  sales,  and  so  forth.  Martin  was  authorised  to  draw 
on  Sir  Roderick's  account — a  most  unusual  proceeding  for 
a  servant,  I  should  say,  for,  after  all,  in  spite  of  the  airs  he 
gave  himself,  Martin  was  nothing  more  than  a  servant — 
and  all  the  payments  were  made  with  cheques  signed  by 
him.  Then  we  paid  a  very  considerable  amount  of  ready 
money  to  Martin  over  the  counter — gold,  never  notes. 
Part  of  it,  no  doubt,  went  to  wages  and  household  ex- 
penses, but  that  could  not  account  for  all.  I  should  say 
that  over  and  above  such  sums  as  would  be  necessary  for 
current  expenses  there  must  have  been  something  getting 
on  for  a  thousand  pounds  a  year  drawn  in  this  way. 
Whether  Sir  Roderick  knew  of  this  or  not  I  don't  know, 
but " 

"  It  is  all  in  the  books  upstairs,"  said  Calthorp. 
"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Phipp  with  an  air  of  slight  disappoint- 
ment. "Then  to  that  extent  I  have  done  Martin  an 
injustice.  I  thought  he  had  taken  it.  But  it  was  not  my 
business  to  say  anything,  as  he  had  Sir  Roderick's  authority 
to  draw.  Well,  now,  I  come  to  a  date  fourteen  years  ago 

G  2 


84  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

last  February.  There  came  a  letter  to  me  at  the  bank 
one  morning  from  Martin,  requesting  my  attendance  on 
Sir  Roderick  forthwith.  I  was  somewhat  excited  over  this 
unusual  summons,  and  so,  if  I  may  say  so,  was  Mrs.  Phipp. 
I  came  over  at  once,  was  met  by  Martin  at  the  landing 
stage,  and  brought  into  this  very  room.  Coming  over  :n 
the  boat  Martin  said,  '  Sir  Roderick  has  sent  for  you  to 
give  you  a  piece  of  information  about  an  investment  he 
has  decided  to  make.  There  is  no  need  to  make  a  fuss 
about  it.  Take  his  instructions  and  then  go  away.'  I  am 
pleased  to  say,  gentlemen,  (here  Mr.  Phipp's  happy  face 
expanded  with  a  twinkling  smile),  that  it  came  into  my 
mind  to  reply,  '  Thank  you,  Martin  ;  my  business  is  with 
your  master.  We  shall  carry  it  out  in  our  own  way,  and  I 
have  no  idea  of  taking  instructions  on  the  subject  from  a 
servant! ' ' 

"  What  did  he  say  to  that  ?  "  asked  Guy. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  actually  bring  out  the  repartee  at  the  time," 
replied  Mr.  Phipp.  "  It  would  not  have  been  politic.  And 
part  of  it  occurred  to  me  afterwards  in  consultation  with 
Mrs.  Phipp.  Still,  the  bulk  of  the  retort  came  into  my  head 
while  I  was  actually  in  the  boat,  and  I  think  you  will  agree, 
gentlemen,  that  it  would  have  been  a  very  pretty  setting 
down,  and  one  which  he  thoroughly  deserved." 

"  Pity  you  didn't  say  it  at  the  time,"  said  Calthorp,  with 
his  hand  to  his  mouth.  "  Well,  you  had  an  interview  with 
Sir  Roderick  in  this  room." 

"  In  this  very  room,"  acquiesced  Mr.  Phipp.  "  I  remember 
it  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday.  I  found  Sir  Roderick 
entirely  different  io  what  I  had  pictured  him.  I  had 
imagined  him  a  gloomy  recluse,  a  misanthrope,  an  anchorite. 
What  was  my  surprise  to  find  myself  greeted  with  the 
utmost  affability — I  might  almost  say  heartiness — by  a  tall, 
handsome  gentleman  with  iron-grey  hair,  who  looked  just 


MR.  PHIPP  EXPLAINS.  85 

as  if  he  might  be  going  to  step  straight  out  of  his  front 
door  and  shoot  a  partridge."  This  illustration  not  quite 
pleasing  Mr.  Phipp,  he  added  after  a  moment's  consideration, 
"or  a  grouse." 

"  He  looked,  in  fact,  just  like  anybody  else,"  suggested 
Calthorp. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Phipp,  "  quite  so.  And  I  was 
immediately  put  entirely  at  my  ease.  He  then  proceeded 
to  inform  me  of  a  rather  extraordinary  decision  to  which  he 
had  come,  but  in  such  a  matter-of-fact  way  that  it  did  not 
seem  so  unusual  after  all.  He  told  me  that  he  intended 
during  the  next  fifteen — mark  these  words,  gentlemen — 
during  the  next  fifteen  years,  to  turn  the  whole  of  his  vast 
fortune — it  must  at  that  time  have  amounted  to  something 
like  a  million  and  a  half  of  money — into  precious  stones. 
'  I  will  tell  you  the  reason,  Mr.  Phipp,  why  I  have  intended 
to  do  this,'  he  said — I  remember  almost  his  exact  words — 
'  Living,'  he  said,  '  in  the  way  I  have  chosen  to  live,  I 
cannot  spend  anything  like  the  income  which  comes  to  me, 
and  it  has  already  grown  too  big  for  me  to  manage  without 
giving  more  attention  to  it  than  I  care  about.  During  the 
last  ten  years  I  have  spent  a  considerable  portion  of  it  in 
buying  the  various  things,  obfy  dar  and  so  forth,  which  I 
should  like  you  presently  to  see ;  but  still  my  income  has 
grown,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  the  house  will  not  hold 
much  more.  Now  I  think  it  would  interest  me  to  make 
such  a  collection  of  precious  stones  as  has  never  been  made 
before,  at  least  in  this  country,  and  during  the  next  fifteen 
years  I  shall  gradually  turn  the  whole  of  my  personal 
property  into  jewels.  Speaking  to  a  business  man  I  may 
say  that  I  shall  exercise  such  judgment  in  making  my  pur- 
chases that  after  my  death,  if  my  collection  comes  to  be 
broken  up,  as  it  probably  will,  it  will  be  worth  a  good  deal 
more  thaa  I  have  paid  for  it.  Therefore,  Mr.  Phipp,  you 


86  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

are  not  to  regard  me  as  a  man  who  is  about  to  throw  away 
recklessly  a  million  and  a  half  of  money ! ' 

"  Of  course  I  assured  Sir  Roderick  that  I  should  not  do  so, 
and  further  that  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  dispose  of  his 
property  as  seemed  best  to  him.  He  then  went  on  to  tell 
me  why  he  had  done  me  the  honour  of  imparting  his 
decision  to  me.  He  said  that  if  it  became  known,  through 
the  bank  clerks  or  anybody,  that  he  was  making  away  with 
such  a  large  sum  of  money,  no  one  knew  how,  it  would  set 
people  talking  about  him  again,  which  he  did  not  want. 
He  therefore  wished  to  set  my  mind  at  rest  on  the  subject, 
and  he  also  asked  me  to  keep  what  he  had  told  me  to 
myself,  so  that  it  should  not  get  about  that  there  was  such 
an  extremely  valuable  hoard  of  precious  stones  in  the 
house." 

"  It  all  seems  quite  straightforward  and  above-board  so 
far,"  said  Calthorp.  "What  about  the  period  of  fifteen 
years  which  you  mentioned,  Mr.  Phipp  ? " 

"You  put  the  same  question,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Phipp, 
"  which  was  put  to  me  by  Mrs.  Phipp  when  I  retailed  the 
circumstances  to  her.  I  keep  nothing  from  my  wife,  gentle- 
men. I  dislike  secrets,  but  when  I  have  once  made  her  the 
repository  of  those  that  are  confided  to  me,  I  find  it  easier 
to  preserve  them.  The  period  of  fifteen  years  mentioned  by 
Sir  Roderick  had  curiously  enough  remained  in  my  brain, 
though  I  had  not  attached  much  importance  to  it  when  it 
was  first  mentioned  to  me,  but  when  I  mentioned  it  to 
Mrs.  Phipp  she  immediately  said,  '  Why  fifteen  years  ? '  and 
I  was  really  unable  to  inform  her.  But  I  will  tell  you  this, 
gentlemen," — Mr.  Phipp  leant  forward  in  his  chair,  with  his 
hands  spread  on  his  knees,  and  spoke  impressively — 
"  The  fifteen  years  are  nearly  up,  and  Sir  Roderick's  fortune 
has  nearly  disappeared," 

"  How  much  is  left '  "  asked  Guy. 


MR.  PHIPP   EXPLAINS.  87 

"  The  exact  balance  in  our  hands,"  replied  Mr.  Phipp, 
referring  to  his  paper,  "  is  forty-one  thousand,  six  hundred 
and  fifty-six,  nine,  two." 

"  I  may  tell  you,"  said  Calthorp,  "  that  Sir  Roderick 
when  he  died  had  nearly  concluded  negotiations  to  spend 
thirty-five  thousand  pounds  on  a  jewel  from  India." 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  Mr.  Phipp.  "  The  sums  remitted  to  us 
from  time  to  time  from  the  sale  of  investments  were  always 
paid  in  just  before  a  big  purchase  was  contemplated.  The 
last  was  paid  in  on  the  eighteenth  of  December  last  and 
has  been  in  our  hands  longer  than  usual.  I  presume  that 
the  negotiations  hung  fire,  and  perhaps  it  was  fortunate 
that  they  did  so,  gentlemen." 

"  Very  fortunate,  I  think,"  said  Calthorp. 

"And  the  extraordinary  thing  is,"  pursued  Mr.  Phipp, 
"as  Mrs.  Phipp  remarked  to  me  only  last  Sunday  week, 
while  we  were  discussing  the  matter  over  a  cold  supper, 
that  at  Sir  Roderick's  ordinary  rate  of  expenditure,  and 
supposing  the  payment  in  December  to  have  been  disposed 
of,  at  the  end  of  the  fifteen  years — that  is  to  say  next 
February — he  would  have  come  down  to  the  position  of 
having  no  income  at  all." 

"  Have  you — or  Mrs.  Phipp — formed  any  conjectures  on 
the  subject,"  asked  Calthorp. 

"  A  hundred,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Phipp.  "  But  none  of 
them  fit.  Perhaps  a  suggestion  of  Mrs.  Phipp's  comes 
nearest  to  the  mark.  It  will  be  twenty-five  years  next 
March  since  Lady  Bertram  died.  Mrs.  Phipp  has  suggested 
that  Sir  Roderick  may  have  had  a  presentiment  that  he 
should  die  at  that  time.  But  as  I  said  to  her,  '  A  presenti- 
ment, my  dear,  is  all  very  well  as  far  as  it  goes.  I  might 
have  a  presentiment  that  a  certain  horse  would  win  the 
Derby  and  I  might  put  a  sovereign  on  it,  but  I  should  not 
risk  the  whole  of  my  available  income  on  that  horse."* 


88  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  What  did  Mrs.  Phipp  say  to  that  ?  "  asked  Calthorp. 

"  She  said,  that  I  certainly  should  not,  if  she  had  a  say 
in  the  matter,"  replied  Mr.  Phipp.  "  Her  remark  was  in 
the  nature  of  a  pleasantry.  She  still  keeps  to  her  idea  of  a 
presentiment  of  death,  and  we  occasionally  have  a  playful 
and  quite  amiable  argument  on — Good  Heavens  1  " 

Mr.  Phipp's  chubby  hand  went  up  to  his  brow,  and  he 
sat  staring  in  front  of  him  with  a  look  of  utmost  bewilder- 
ment on  his  face. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Calthorp  and  Guy  together. 

"  Why,  gentlemen,  Mrs.  Phipp  is  right,"  exclaimed  that 
lady's  husband.  "  The  fifteen  years  are  nearly  up,  and  Sir 
Roderick  is  dead." 

"No  doubt  of  that,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Calthorp,  "but 
apparently  his  death  came  quite  unexpectedly." 

"  That  is  so,"  said  Mr.  Phipp,  gradually  recovering  from 
his  surprise  at  the  apparently  remarkable  fulfilment  of  Mrs. 
Phipp's  prophecy.  "Yes,  that  is  so.  He  had  not  com- 
pleted his  last  purchase,  and  he  had  left  himself  enough 
money  to  go  on  to  the  limit  of  time.  No.  His  lamented 
death  can  hardly  have  come  in  the  way  the  presentiment 
pointed  out,  if  presentiment  there  was,  which  I  have  always 
doubted,  and  which  we  shall  now  never  know.  And  the 
supposition  I  have  formed  during  my  drive  here  is  not 
destroyed." 

"  What  supposition  ?  "  enquired  Calthorp. 

u  Foul  play,"  returned  Mr.  Phipp,  cheerfully,  his  bird-like 
eye  resting  first  on  one  and  then  on  the  other. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Calthorp. 

"  I've  never  trusted  Martin  since  the  day  he  refused  Mrs. 
Phipp's  invitation,"  said  Mr.  Phipp.  "  I've  no  proof,  no 
proof  at  all,  and  what  I  say  must  not  go  beyond  the  four 
walk  of  this  room  for  fear  of  legal  consequences,  but  what 
I  say  is  that  Martin  has  poisoned  Sir  Roderick,  made  away 


MR.  PHIPP  EXPLAINS  89 

with  his  body   for  fear  of  an  inquest,   and   walked  off 
with  the  jewels." 

"But  Martin  was  away  when  Sir  Roderick  was  taken 
ill,"  said  Cal thorp,  "  and  didn't  return  until  after  Dr.  Mellish 
came,  and  Dr.  Mellish  was  with  Sir  Roderick  when  he 
died." 

"  Oh  I "  said  Mr.  Phipp,  with  a  blank  look  of  dis- 
appointment. 

"  So  I  don't  think  that  Martin  is  quite  so  black  as  that." 

"  But  he  has  taken  the  jewels,"  said  Mr.  Phipp,  cheering 
up. 

"  It  looks  like  it,  certainly." 

"  Ah,  he's  a  deep  one,"  said  Mr.  Phipp,  shaking  a 
knowing  head.  "  You  can't  say  what  he  has  done  or  what 
he  hasn't  done.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if,  after  all,  you 
were  to  find — but  there,  nobody  shall  say  that  Jasper 
Phipp  is  a  backbiter.  I  leave  it  at  that,  gentlemen." 

Mr.  Phipp  soon  afterwards  left  altogether,  having  cleared 
up  one  or  two  puzzles,  and  suggested  one  or  two  more. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  story  it  is,"  said  Guy,  when  the 
little  banker  had  disappeared.  a  What  do  you  make  of  it, 
Dick  ?  " 

"  Nothing  much  at  present,"  returned  Calthorp, "  though 
I  shall  set  to  work  on  it  by-and-bye.  I  am  so  constituted 
that  I  cannot  do  two  things  at  once  without  inconveniencing 
myself,  and  just  now  I  am  anxious  to  see  exactly  how  we 
stand.  Mr.  Phipp  has  assisted  me  there,  and  those  books 
upstairs  have  been  kept  in  such  a  wonderful  way  that  in 
rather  less  than  an  hour  I  have  got  at  pretty  nearly  every- 
thing it  is  necessary  to  know." 

"  You  haven't  found  a  will,  have  you  ?  " 

"  No.  And  I  don't  think  I  shall.  But  that  will  perhaps 
make  things  easier  for  you.  Now,  I'll  just  tell  you  this. 
In  those  books  there  is  a  perfectly  plain  history  of  every 


90  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

transaction  that  has  taken  place  with  regard  to  Sir 
Roderick's  property  since  he  first  shut  himself  up  here. 
Every  entry  has  been  made  by  Martin.  The  rascal  must  have 
had  a  perfect  genius  for  accounts.  Every  purchase  has  been 
entered — books,  furniture,  pictures,  objets  d'art,  as  our 
friend  calls  them,  and  precious  stones.  The  last  may  come 
in  useful.  The  estate  seems  to  bring  in  very  little.  There 
are  only  two  farms  outside  the  park  walls.  One  of  these 
has  apparently  supplied  the  house,  and  the  other  has 
brought  in  enough  to  keep  up  the  roads  and  walls. 
Expenses  have  amounted  to  six  or  seven  thousand  a  year. 
A  lot  of  money  has  been  spent  in  the  garden,  but  the  stables 
have  cost  nothing  much,  and  in  other  ways  in  which 
expenses  mount  up  in  a  house  kept  up  like  this  it  has  been 
saved.  Sir  Roderick  lived  entirely  alone,  and  his  personal 
expenditure  has  been  practically  nil." 

"  What  about  the  money  Martin  took  ?  "  asked  Guy. 

"  Phipp  was  quite  right.  He  seems  to  have  walked  off 
with  little  short  of  a  thousand  a  year  in  hard  cash.  But  it 
is  all  down  in  the  books,  which  you  must  remember  were 
kept  in  Sir  Roderick's  dressing  room  and  were  always  under 
his  eye.  Whatever  he  took  before  Sir  Roderick's  death 
must  have  been  known." 

"  A  thousand  a  year  seems  to  be  a  fair  lump  for  a  valet." 

"  Yes.  And  his  actual  wages  at  two  pounds  a  week  are 
all  down  in  black  and  white  like  everything  else.  Probably 
the  other  money  was  disbursed  on  Sir  Roderick's  behalf. 
That  we  don't  know  and  apparently  we  are  not  intended 
to  know,  for  everything  else  is  as  plain  as  the  nose  in  front 
of  your  face.  Now  I'll  tell  you  how  you  stand,  Sir  Guy 
Bertram.  You've  got  the  forty  thousand  odd  that  remains 
in  the  bank  at  Keswick.  You've  got  this  house  and  all  the 
treasures  it  contains,  and  they're  worth  almost  anything  you 
like  to  name.  Sir  Roderick  has  spent  what  to  anyone  else 


MR.  PHIPP   EXPLAINS.  91 

would  be  a  large  fortune  on  his  purchases,  and  I  know 
enough  about  these  things  to  be  able  to  say  that  he  was 
scarcely  capable  of  making  a  mistake.  And  when  the 
jewels  are  found,  you  will  have  them,  or  their  value." 

"  Yes,  when  they  are  found,"  said  Guy. 

"  Mr.  Martin  is  not  destined  to  enjoy  his  liberty  for  very 
long,"  said  Calthorp. 


CHAPTER  VHL 

CONJECTURES. 

THE  news  of  the  disappearance  of  Sir  Roderick's  body 
flew  like  wild-fire  over  the  country  and  created  a  mighty 
stir.  The  circumstances  of  his  meteoric  career  in  Parliament 
were  recalled  to  mind  and  his  speeches  dragged  to  light 
out  of  "  Hansard  "  and  the  Times.  Very  fine  speeches  some 
of  these  were,  and  the  greatest  of  parliamentary  causeurs 
was  able  to  supply  many  an  entertaining  column  of  infor- 
mation as  to  how  the  young  under-secretary  looked  and 
spoke  when  he  first  delivered  them, his  "copy "being illus- 
trated with  portraits  of  Sir  Roderick  by  the  greatest  of  par- 
liamentary caricaturists,  ^vho  had  never  seen  him.  The  story 
of  his  romantic  marriage  with  a  penniless  Italian  beauty 
was  dilated  upon,  and  his  retirement  from  the  world  after 
her  death  was  treated  from  every  point  of  view,  but  chiefly 
from  the  sentimental,  which  is  the  point  of  view  the  British 
public  loves  best. 

The  theory  of  theft  for  ransom,  which  had  first  occurred 
to  and  then  been  rejected  by  Calthorp,  was  the  one  seized 
on  by  all  the  papers,  and  many  gruesome  stories  were  dug 
out  of  commonplace  books  and  disinterred  from  the  files  of 
old  journals.  No  sooner  had  interest  been  aroused  by  the 
remarkable  story  of  the  "  Alleged  Theft  of  a  Baronet's  Body," 
than  some  fortunate  weekly  journal  discovered  and  re- 
produced an  old  print  of  "  The  Terraces  and  Cascade  at 
Merrilees,  Cumberland,  the  seat  of  Sir  Michael  Bertram, 
Baronet,"  which,  although  it  left  as  much  to  be  supplied  by 


CONJECTURES.  $3 

the  imagination  as  a  black  and  white  photograph  of  the 
glories  of  a  sunset,  aroused  interest  in  the  beauties  of  Sir 
Roderick's  island  paradise  and  doubled  the  number  of 
reporters  who  clamoured  at  the  high  gates  of  the  five  lodges. 
Although  the  high  wall  round  the  park  did  not  suffice  to 
keep  these  intrusive  gentlemen  from  trespassing,  only  one  of 
them  succeeded  in  setting  foot  on  the  island,  in  the  guise  of  a 
policeman ;  and  he  was  soon  recognised  for  the  jackdaw  he 
was  by  the  peacocks  whose  feathers  he  had  borrowed,  and 
ignominiously  ejected  from  the  lodge  gates,  without  having 
once  pressed  the  button  of  his  hand  camera. 

When  the  gossip  about  the  beauties  of  Merrilees  was  at 
its  height  the  story  of  the  jewels  leaked  out,  and  then  of 
their  robbery  ;  and  altogether  there  was  a  constant  succession 
of  thrills  and  excitements,  which  kept  the  interest  of  the 
public  alive  in  Merrilees  and  its  late  owner  for  a  longer 
time  than  is  usual  with  such  nine  days'  wonders. 

A  considerable  amount  of  this  interest,  it  maybe  supposed, 
fell  upon  Guy,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find  how  well  known 
his  previous  life  had  become  to  the  world  at  large,  and  also 
what  a  lot  of  it  there  was  to  know. 

An  American  paper,  of  which  he  received  a  copy  later — 
for  the  Americans  showed  quite  an  intelligent  interest  in  the 
affair — even  went  so  far  as  to  publish  a  long  letter  printed 
over  a  facsimile  of  the  way  the  Editor  would  have  signed 
Guy's  name  if  it  had  happened  to  be  his  own,  in  which, 
after  relating  in  a  thrilling  and  picturesque  manner  his 
sensations  on  seeing  the  body  of  the  uncle  who  had  brought 
him  up  from  childhood  and  died  in  his  arms  carried  away 
before  his  eyes  by  four  masked  ruffians,  who  had  previously 
taken  the  precaution  of  gagging  him  and  tying  him  to  the 
bedpost,  he  finished  up  with  a  high  compliment  to  the  well- 
known  love  of  liberty  of  the  free  and  glorious  American 
people,  in  what  connection  it  was  not  apparent.  The  letter 


94  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

was  heralded  by  numerous  headlines  of  a  sensational  and 
arresting  nature,and  accompanied  by  portraits  of  Mr.  Glad- 
stone and  H.R.H.  the  Duke  of  Connaught,  both  taken  in 
early  youth,  and  labelled  respectively  "  Sir  Roderick  C. 
Bertram  and  Sir  Guy  K.  Bertram." 

I  may  be  said  shortly  that  in  spite  of  the  most  confident 
assurances  of  the  gentlemen  from  Scotland  Yard,  in  spite 
of  miraculously  elucidated  clues  discovered  at  the  rate  of 
two  a  day  by  the  local  police,  no  traces  were  found  of  Sir 
Roderick's  body  and  nothing  was  heard  or  seen  of  the  two 
fugitives,  or  of  the  enormous  booty  it  was  now  admitted  on 
all  hands  that  they  must  have  carried  away  with  them. 
Calthorp,  piecing  together  and  rejecting  evidence  in  a  way 
which  left  the  searching  wits  of  the  detectives  struggling 
far  behind  him,  had  got  no  nearer  the  heart  of  the  mystery 
than  before,  and  Guy  had  unwillingly  come  to  the  conclusion, 
after  living  for  a  week  in  a  turmoil  of  baseless  surmise  and 
unfruitful  exertion,  that  he  would  have  to  make  up  his 
mind  for  the  present  to  arrange  his  life  on  the  basis  of  his 
actual  income,  and  not  on  that  which  he  ought  to  have 
possessed  had  not  Sir  Roderick  behaved  like  a  fool  in  buying 
a  million  and  a  half  pounds  worth  of  jewels,  and  Martin 
like  a  knave  in  stealing  them. 

The  calls  of  his  business  had  summoned  Calthorp  back 
to  London  three  days  after  their  hurried  journey  north- 
ward, and,  left  to  himself,  Guy  fell  a  victim  to  the  utmost 
despondency.  The  beauties  of  his  inherited  home  had  no 
power  to  soothe  or  please  him,  living  amongst  them 
without  a  soul  to  talk  to.  The  shadow  of  unexplained 
mystery  hung  over  *U1  like  a  blight,  and  two  days  after 
Calthorp's  departure  he  found  himself  unable  to  support 
his  state  any  longer,  nnd  formed  the  sudden  resolution  of 
shutting  up  the  house  until  such  time  as  the  recovery  of 
his  fortune  should  enable  him  to  revisit  it  in  congenial 


CONJECTURES.  95 

company.  The  interval  between  a  decision  formed  and  a 
decision  carried  out  was  likely  to  be  a  short  one  with  a 
man  of  Guy's  impulsive  temperament,  and  within  a  week 
of  his  arrival  at  Merrilees  he  had  dismissed  the  greater  part 
of  its  staS  of  servants  and  left  it  to  the  care  of  Mrs. 
Cheetham,  with  a  maid  or  two  to  look  after  her  and  the 
treasures  under  her  care,  and  taken  himself  back  to  his 
rooms  in  London. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  the  month  of  June  was  not  yet 
over  when  Guy  and  Calthorp  found  themselves  walking  up 
St.  James's  Street  in  the  evening  sunlight  to  dine  together 
at  White's  Club,  and  discuss  the  weighty  matters  which  had 
developed  within  so  short  a  time.  Guy  had  arrived  in 
town  only  half  an  hour  before,  and  had  wired  to  Calthorp 
to  meet  him.  Amidst  the  familiar  surroundings  of  London, 
at  that  hour  of  the  day  when  it  is  blossoming  out  from  a 
city  of  work  into  a  city  of  pleasure,  the  great  house 
amongst  the  lonely  northern  hills  seemed  as  remote  as  a 
half-forgotten  dream. 

The  upstairs  room  of  the  club  was  full  of  diners,  all 
talking  at  once,  but  at  Guy's  entrance  there  was  a  pause, 
and  he  realised  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  for  the 
moment  one  of  the  most  discussed  men  in  London.  Those 
in  the  room  who  knew  him  made  haste  to  claim  acquaint- 
ance, and  those  who  did  not  regarded  him  with  an  air  of 
interest  and  curiosity.  Dining  at  one  of  the  tables  was 
George  Greenfield,  as  the  guest  of  Mr.  Robert  Conder,  M.P., 
a  young  gentleman  whose  legislative  duties  seemed  to  sit 
lightly  on  him,  for  there  were  few  traces  of  care  on  his 
round  and  cheerful  countenance. 

"  There's  no  table,"  said  Guy  ;  "  let's  go  and  sit  with 
Bobby  Conder  and  George.  I  don't  mind  talking  before 
them." 

"  Well,  Guy,"  said   George,  as   they   took   their  seats. 


96  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  Your  name  is  in  all  the  papers,  and  your  portrait  stares  at 
us  from  all  the  shop  windows.  If  the  populace  at  large 
knew  you  were  sitting  in  this  room  there  would  be  a  crowd 
outside  that  would  stop  the  traffic." 

"  There  is  a  little  too  much  notoriety  about  my  position 
at  the  present  juncture  of  affairs  to  suit  my  fastidious 
taste,"  said  Guy. 

"  You're  like  a  fellow  in  a  novel,"  said  Bobby  Conder. 
"  Sherry  ?  No,  thank  you." 

"  I  wish  I  were  more  like  a  fellow  in  real  life,"  said  Guy. 
"  It  is  annoying  to  come  into  a  pot  of  money  and  to  find 
that  somebody  has  walked  off  with  it." 

"  My  friend,  Mr.  Richard  Calthorp,  the  eminent  solicitor, 
who  will  some  day  bombard  me  with  briefs,  will  get  that 
back  for  you,  or  I  overrate  his  abilities,"  said  George. 
"  Had  any  luck  yet,  Dick  ?  "  asked  Bobby  Conder. 
"  Not  yet,"  said  Calthorp. 

•*  Although  the  police  are  reticent,"  said  George,  "  it  is 
breaking  no  confidence  to  say  that  they  are  hot  on  the 
track  of  the  culprits,  and  confidently  expect  to  bring  them 
to  justice  within  a  short  period." 

"Tell  us  about  it,"  said  Bobby  Conder.  "That  is  if 
you've  got  no  objection." 

'•  Not  the  least,"  said  Guy.  "  The  story  is  common  pro- 
perty now.  And  I  never  saw  Roderick  Bertram  in  my  life.'* 
"  There  is  a  certain '  mystery  of  motive,  isn't  there  ?  ** 
asked  George.  "  From  what  I've  read  it  seems  unlikely 
that  they  should  be  holding  the  body  for  ransom  when  they 
have  got  off  with  all  that  property.  But  the  papers  don't 
seem  to  spot  the  contradiction." 

"  With  your  customary  perspicacity,  you  have  put  your 
finger  on  a  point,"  said  Calthorp,  "  a  point  upon  which,  I 
may  mention,  my  own  particular  digit  was  firmly  planted 
some  time  ago." 


CONJECTURES.  97 

**  In  my  own  mind,"  said  George,  "  I  separate  the  dis« 
appearance  of  the  body  and  the  theft  of  the  jewels.  Of 
course,  I  have  no  data  to  go  on  beyond  what  are  known  to 
everybody." 

"  But  how  can  you  separate  them  ?  **  asked  Bobby 
Conder.  "The  body  and  the  jewels  disappeared  at  the 
same  time,  and  Martin  took  'em  both." 

"  So  it  appears,  most  sapient  one,"  said  George ;  **  but 
you  will  admit  that  it  is  at  least  curious  that  a  gentleman 
who  has  set  himself  the  task  of  getting  away  with  a  great 
treasure  should  choose  to  encumber  himself  with  a  dead 
body  which,  as  far  as  one  can  see,  cannot  be  of  much  use 
to  him." 

Bobby  Conder  admitted  that  this  was  certainly  so,  and 
that  he  had  not  hitherto  regarded  the  matter  in  that  light. 

"  If  Guy  has  no  objection,  I  might  as  well  tell  you  what 
we  know,"  said  Calthorp.  "  Four  heads  are  better  than 
two,  and  as  long  as  nothing  we  say  here  goes  any  further 
we  sha'n't  be  doing  any  harm." 

Guy  having  disclaimed  any  preference  for  an  unduly 
close  secrecy,  and  George  and  Bobby  Conder  having  under- 
taken to  keep  to  themselves  whatever  should  be  disclosed 
to  them,  Calthorp  told  them  what  Mrs.  Cheetham  had 
conjectured  and  the  reasons  she  had  given  for  her  con- 
jectures. 

"  The  idea  has  more  probability  than  any  I  have  been 
able  to  evolve,"  said  George  when  he  had  finished,  "  and 
I  have  thought  about  this  business  a  good  deal.  What  do 
you  think  of  it  yourself  ? " 

"  I  think  enough  of  it  to  have  acted  on  it,**  replied 
Calthorp.  "  If  it  is  as  Mrs.  Cheetham  thinks,  we  should 
run  Mr.  Martin  to  earth  at  the  place  where  Lady  Bertram 
was  buried,  and  before  I  left  Merrilees  Guy  and  I  tried  to 
find  out  where  that  place  was.  We  had  an  unexpected 

H.M.  • 


98  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

difficulty.  Neither  the  butler  nor  the  housekeeper,  who 
were  both  at  Merrilees  at  the  time,  could  call  it  to  mind. 
All  they  remembered  was  that  she  had  died  in  Italy.  And 
there  was  no  paper  or  anything  in  the  house  that  gave  us 
light.  I  got  at  it  when  I  returned  to  town  by  looking  up 
old  files  of  newspapers.  The  place  was  said  to  be  Assisi, 
and  I  wired  this  to  Guy  and  got  him  to  try  it  on  the  old 
people." 

"  Which  I  did  with  success,"  put  in  Guy.  "  They  both 
declared,  now  we  came  to  mention  it,  that  Martin  had 
spoken  of  Assisi  as  the  place  of  Lady  Bertram's  death  and 
burial." 

"  So  you  sent  out  to  Assisi  ?  "  said  George. 

"  I  did,"  replied  Calthorp, "  and  this  morning  I  received 
this  curious  piece  of  information.  There  is  no  trace  of 
Lady  Bertram's  having  been  buried  there  at  all." 

"  There  must  be  a  death  certificate,  if  not  a  burial  certifi- 
cate," said  George. 

"There  is  neither.  And  here  is  another  curious  thing. 
The  actual  announcement  in  the  Times  stated  only  that 
Lady  Bertram  had  died  in  Italy.  Here  it  is :  '  On  March 
I4th,  1 8 — ,  while  travelling  in  Italy,  Francesca,  wife  of  Sir 
Roderick  Bertram,  Bart.,  and  infant  son.'  It  was  only  in 
the  slightly  padded  statements  in  other  parts  of  the  paper 
that  Assisi  was  mentioned." 

"  What  do  you  make  of  it  ?  "  asked  George. 

"  Nothing  much  ;  it  was  probably  known  that  they  had 
been  at  Assisi,  and  she  may  have  been  taken  ill  there,  was 
moved  on  somewhere,  perhaps  on  their  way  home,  and  she 
and  the  child  died  and  were  buried  in  some  unknown  place." 

"  It  may  be  that  this  mystification  was  introduced 
deliberately  five-and- twenty  years  ago,"  said  George. 
M  Martin's  plans  seem  to  be  deep  ones." 

*  That  may  be  so,"  replied  Calthorp.    "  At  any  rate  it 


CONJECTURES.  99 

would  be  useful  to  him  now,  supposing  him  to  be  conveying 
Sir  Roderick's  body  to  his  wife's  grave.  By  the  time  we 
have  traced  it  he  may  have  effected  his  purpose  and  got 
clear  away  again." 

"  It  ought  not  to  be  very  difficult  to  find  out  where  Lady 
Bertram  died,"  said  Bobby  Conder. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will,"  said  Calthorp.  "  If  they  were  at 
Assisi  at  all  we  ought  to  be  able  to  trace  them.  They  were 
of  some  importance,  a  man  of  Sir  Roderick's  reputation 
at  the  time  travelling  with  his  wife  and  a  certain  following. 
The  man  I  have  sent  over  there  is  doing  all  he  can,  and  I 
expect  to  hear  from  him  again  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  It  is  just  as  well  to  follow  up  every  clue,"  said  George. 
"  But  after  all,  I  think  that  this  is  an  unlikely  one.  With 
the  whole  country  roused  against  him,  I  should  say  Martin 
would  find  it  absolutely  impossible  to  get  the  body  away 
from  England." 

"That's  what  I  think,"  said  Guy.  " There  are  absolutely 
no  traces  of  them  up  in  Cumberland,  and  all  the  coast  is 
being  watched." 

"  I  expect  the  body  will  be  found  buried  somewhere  near 
the  house,"  said  Bobby  Conder. 

"  I  should  say,"  said  Guy,  "  that  by  this  time  every  foot 
of  ground  on  the  island  and  within  the  park  walls  has  been 
examined,  and  the  lake  has  been  dragged  from  end  to  end. 
But  it  may  be  outside  the  park.  There  is  a  little  gate  in 
the  wall  to  which  Martin  had  a  key." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,"  said  Calthorp.  "  The  reward  has 
been  doubled,  and  there  must  be  hundreds  of  people  on  the 
search.  If  it  has  been  buried  anywhere  near  the  place  it 
will  be  found  very  soon." 

"  And  what  about  the  jewels  ?  "  asked  George. 

MI  don't  think  you  can  avoid  the  conviction  that  Mr. 
Martin  has  walked  off  \v:th  them  with  a  view  of  disposing 

H  2 


too 

of  them  for  his  own  benefit,'*  replied  Calthorp.  "  He  may 
have  been  as  devoted  to  Sir  Roderick  as  the  housekeeper 
said  he  was,  but  there  is  no  particular  reason  why  he  should 
have  put  himself  out  for  Sir  Roderick's  successor,  and  1 
daresay  he  thought  he  could  make  as  good  a  use  of  a  large 
fortune  as  Guy.  Let  us  be  charitable  and  suppose  that, 
having  had  such  a  large  share  in  the  business  of  getting 
them  together,  he  had  come  to  believe  that  they  belonged 
to  him  as  much  as  to  anybody." 

"  He'll  find  they  don't  when  we  nab  him,"  said  Guy.  "  And 
I  hope  that  will  be  pretty  soon." 

"Are  you  going  to  take  up  your  abode  at  Merrilees, 
Guy  ?  "  asked  Bobby  Conder.  "  It  must  be  a  fine  place 
from  what  one  hears." 

"My  dear  Bobby,"  said  Guy,  "you  don't  realise  that 
that  scoundrel  has  walked  off  with  pretty  nearly  everything. 
Until  he  is  run  to  earth  and  made  to  disgorge,  I've  got  no 
money  to  keep  up  Merrilees  or  any  other  place.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I'm  very  little  better  off  than  I  was  before." 

"That's  hard  luck,"  said  Bobby  Conder.  "Doesn't  the 
place  bring  in  anything  ?  " 

"  Practically  nothing." 

"It  contains  a  large  fortune  in  treasures  of  art,  and 
that  sort  of  thing,"  said  Calthorp.  "  If  its  contents  were 
sold " 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  sell  them,"  interrupted  Guy — "  at 
least,  not  until  I'm  obliged.  I'm  going  to  let  the  place. 
What  do  you  think  it  ought  to  let  for,  Dick  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  you  might  get  about  a  thousand  a  year 
if  the  right  man  came  along,"  said  Calthorp.  "  It  is  out 
of  the  way,  and  there  is  nothing  to  shoot  there.  But  the 
place  is  unique,  and  it  is  being  well  advertised  for  us." 

"  Well,  I  sha'n't  be  so  badly  off  in  the  meantime  if  I  get 
that  for  it,"  said  Guy,  who  was  by  nature  inclined  to  take 


CONJECTURES.  101 

cheerful  views.  "  I  shall  build  a  cottage  in  the  country. 
I've  always  wanted  to  do  that,  and  I  don't  know  that  I 
sha'n't  enjoy  it  more  than  living  in  that  enormous  great 
place.  So  if  any  of  you  have  got  a  tame  millionaire  up 
his  sleeve  who  wants  a  fine  country  house,  and  doesn't 
mind  what  he  pays  for  it,  just  put  him  on  to  me." 

"  I  believe  my  uncle  Caradoc  might  take  it  if  it's  every- 
thing the  papers  say  it  is,"  said  Bobby  Conder.  "  I  know 
he's  on  the  look-out  for  a  place  away  from  his  beastly 
coal-mines." 

"  What,  Lord  Caradoc,  the  historian  ?  "  exclaimed 
George.  "  Book  him,  Guy.  Your  name  will  go  down  to 
posterity  if  he  writes  his  book  in  your  house." 

"It  might  be  worth  while  to  send  Lord  Caradoc 
particulars  of  the  place,"  said  Calthorp. 

"  He  wouldn't  open  your  letter,"  said  Bobby  Conder, 
"and  if  he  did  he  wouldn't  answer  it.  He  lives  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  don't  understand  the  workings  of  the 
penny  post.  If  you  were  to  engage  a  beefeater,  and  send 
him  round  with  particulars  on  a  roll  of  parchment,  you 
might  run  some  chance  of  arousing  his  attention." 

"That  seems  probable,"  said  Calthorp.  "But  such  a 
course  does  not  come  within  my  conceptions  of  the  fitting 
way  to  approach  a  possible  client.  I  might  call  on  him." 

"  People  don't  generally  call  upon  him  when  he's  in 
London,"  said  Bobby  Conder ;  "  at  least,  they  don't  call 
twice.  I  can  do  a  bit  in  the  conversational  line  myself 
with  most  people,  but  when  you  are  shown  into  a  room 
and  find  an  old  gentleman  snowed  up  under  books  and 
papers,  and  he  says,  '  How  do  you  do  ? '  with  a  '  Say-what- 
you've-got-to-say-and-clear-out '  sort  of  air,  it  don't  make 
you  feel  in  your  very  chattiest  mood." 

"  How  is  he  to  be  got  at,  then  ? "  inquired  Calthorp. 
"  Would  you  suggest  a  bomb  outside  his  front  door  ?  ** 


102  THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Bobby  Conder.  "  Mind  you,  I 
really  believe  he  might  take  the  place  if  you  could  bring 
home  to  him  that  it  is  what  he  wants,  or  else  it  wouldn't 
be  worth  while  trying  to  break  through  to  what  brain  he's 
got  for  nineteenth  century  affairs.  He  comes  out  of  his 
shell  once  a  year,  and  sits  through  the  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge cricket  match  from  beginning  to  end.  Why  he  does 
it  I  don't  know.  I  don't  suppose  he  could  tell  the  dif- 
ference between  a  cricket  bat  and  a — a  tilting  spear.  But 
he  has  done  it  ever  since  they  played  cricket  in  top  hats, 
and  he'll  be  at  Lord's  next  week.  I  shall  be  there  on 
Thursday,  at  any  rate,  and  he'll  be  lunching  at  our 
table.  If  you  and  Dick  will  come  too,  I'll  introduce 
you  to  him,  and  you  can  land  him  with  the  house  and 
clear  out." 

"  It  might  be  worth  trying,"  said  Guy.  "  Can  you  come, 
Dick?" 

"  I'm  very  busy,"  said  Calthorp,  "  but  I'll  make  an 
effort,"  and  he  booked  the  engagement  in  his  note-book. 

When  dinner  was  over,  and  the  party  had  sat  for  half  an 
hour  in  the  room  downstairs,  Guy  suggested  an  adjournment 
to  some  place  of  entertainment. 

"  Let  us  revel,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  get  the  taste  of  this 
beastly  mystery  out  of  my  mouth." 

Bobby  Conder  showed  no  disinclination  to  indulge  for 
an  hour  or  two  in  lighter  pursuits  than  those  of  walking 
in  and  out  of  division  lobbies  and  listening  to  debates, 
or  smoking  cigarettes  in  an  underground  cellar.  But 
George  dissuaded  him. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  Bobby  isn't  paired.  He  mustn't  be 
allowed  to  incur  the  displeasure  of  the  Whips.  Why,  his 
absence  might  upset  the  Government.  Bobby  is  going 
down  to  the  House  like  a  good  little  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  I  am  going  with  him  to  listen  to  the  bulwark  of 


CONJECTURES.  103 

our  nation's  liberties— if  you  can  properly  be  said  to  listen 
to  a  bulwark." 

"Let's  just  drop  into  the  Alhambra  for  half  an  hour," 
urged  Bobby  Conder.  "  There's  that  new  Spanish  dancer. 
She's  rippin*.  There's  nothing  going  on  in  the  House,  and 
there  are  plenty  of  them  without  me." 

"No,  my  budding  Premier,"  said  George.  "You  will 
come  along  with  me  and  help  make  your  country's  laws, 
which  we  have  all  got  to  obey  when  you  have  made  them." 

"  What  an  insistent  fellow  you  are  !  "  said  Bobby  Conder, 
ruefully.  "  I  did  want  to  see  that  dancer.  But  have  it 
your  own  way." 

Guy  went  out  with  them  while  they  put  on  their  coats. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Greenfield  ?  "  he  asked  George. 

"Very  well,  thanks,"  replied  George.  "  She'll  be 
interested  to  hear  I've  met  you  now  you've  become  such 
a  public  character." 

"  And  Miss  Richards  ?  " 

"Peggy  is  at  present  finishing  her  education  in  Paris. 
She,  also,  will  be  interested  in  news  of  you." 

44  You  might  remember  me  to  her  when  you  write,"  said 
Guy  diffidently. 

"  I  will,"  said  George.  "  Now  then,  young  Palmerston, 
are  we  going  to  walk  or  take  a  cab  ?  H 


CHAPTER  DL 

LORD   CARADOC  AMD  A  CRICKET   MATCH. 

CARADOC,  i6th  Baron  (cr.  1417),  Rev.  Owe» 
Joseph  Caradoc,  D.C.L.  (Oxon.),  LL.D.  (Cam- 
bridge and  Dublin),  F.R.S.,  b.  18— ,  2nd  $.  of 
I4th  Baron  and  Letitia,  d.  of  Sir  Raymond 
Mandrake,  8th  Bt.  ;  5.  b.  18— ;  m.  Louisa,  dt 
of  ist  Lord  Conder  (she  died  18 — ).  Educ.t 
Privately,  and  at  Univ.  Coll.,  Oxford.  B.A, 
18 — ;  ist  class  Lit  Hum.;  M.A.  18— ;  Fellow 
of  All  Souls' ;  Hon.  Fellow  of  Univ.  Coll.  and 
St.  John's  Coll.,  Cambridge;  Foreign  Knight 
of  the  Order  Pour  le  Merite,  18 — ;  correspond- 
ing member  of  Institute  of  France ;  rector  of 
Treglith,  Glamorgan,  18 — .  Publications  :  The 
Rise  of  the  English  Universities ;  Roger  Ascham; 
The  Authorship  of  Eikon  Basilike ;  The  Uni- 
versity of  Bologna ;  History  of  Socinianism ; 
England's  Relations  with  the  Continent  in  tha 
Middle  Ages,  vols.  i.  to  vii.  Owns  about  48,700 
acres.  Heir:  d.  Hon.  Cicely  Mary  Caradoc, 
ft.  18 — .  Recreations :  Acquisition  of  foreign 
languages;  botany.  Address:  Caradoc  Castle, 
Carnarvon;  153,  Berkeley  Square,  S.W.  ChA: 
Athenaeum. 

THERE,  in  a  nutshell,  extracted  from  the  pages  of  a  useful 
work  of  reference,  are  set  forth  the  titles,  honours,  history, 
wealth,  and  position  of  an  old  gentleman  who,  accompanied 
by  a  young  girl — the  Hon.  Cicely  Mary  Caradoc,  in 
fact,  of  the  above  extract — took  his  seat  in  a  shady  stand 
at  Lord's  Cricket  Ground  on  a  fine  morning  early  in  July, 


LORD  CARADOC  AND  A  CRICKET  MATCH.    105 

prepared  to  watch  the  rival  Universities  do  battle  for  some- 
thing like  the  fortieth  time.  Other  old  gentlemen  in  the 
Pavilion  and  in  other  seats  in  the  various  stands  were  pre- 
paring themselves  for  a  similar  experience,  but  it  is  doubtful 
•whether  any  of  them  had  done  the  thing  so  systematically 
as  this  particular  one  for  so  many  years  past.  Bobby 
Conder's  disrespectful  statement  that  his  uncle  knew 
nothing  whatever  about  the  game  of  cricket  must  be  con- 
sidered an  exaggeration,  although  it  was  perfectly  true  that 
the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  match  was  the  only  one  at 
•which  Lord  Caradoc  ever  put  in  an  appearance  as  a 
spectator.  Judging  from  the  way  in  which  he  watched  every 
ball  and  every  stroke  from  behind  a  pair  of  gold-rimmed 
eyeglasses,  perched  on  a  high-bridged  aristocratic  nose,  and 
from  the  precise  manner  in  which  he  recorded  the  progress 
of  the  game  on  his  "  correct  card  of  the  match  "  with  an 
aristocratic  gold  pencil-case,  and  the  reminiscences  of  other 
matches  with  which  he  favoured  his  companion,  whose 
attention  often  wandered  from  the  game  itself  to  the 
spectators  around  her,  he  took  a  very  considerable  interest 
in  it  indeed,  and  understood  its  points  perhaps  as  well  as 
Mr.  Bobby  Conder  himself.  In  fact,  in  the  early  days 
of  his  residence  at  the  University  of  Oxford,  a  good  many 
years  previously,  although  not  perhaps  at  the  time  when 
cricket  was  commonly  played  in  tall  hats,  Mr.  Owen 
Caradoc,  as  he  was  then,  had  been  noted  for  his  delivery 
of  very  fast  underhand  balls  of  a  disconcerting  gyratory 
tendency,  and  if  other  pursuits  had  not  claimed  his  attention 
in  place  of  that  of  the  national  game,  it  is  quite  possible 
that  he  might  himself  have  taken  part  in  the  great  match 
which  he  had  watched  with  such  close  attention  every  year 
since  that  time. 

As,  for  reasons  of  our  own,  we  have  suppressed  the  exact 
dates  which  are  set  forth  with  such  accuracy  in  the  wori 


to6  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

of  reference  from  which  we  have  quoted,  it  may  be  said 
that  Lord  Caradoc  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life 
engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  in  the  retirement  of  a 
country  rectory,  where  he  had  the  spiritual  oversight, 
according  to  Crockford,  of  247  souls,  and  a  net  income 
from  his  benefice  of  the  inconsiderable  sum  of  £17  pei 
annum,  with  what  Mr.  Crockford,  in  his  pleasant  way, 
is  accustomed  to  call  a  "  ho.,"  which  means  a  house,  and 
twenty-six  acres  of  glebe.  Here  his  daughter  had  been 
born  and  his  wife  had  died,  though  he  would  have  found 
some  difficulty  in  fixing  the  date  of  those  events,  and,  if  you 
had  asked  him  the  question  suddenly,  might  even  have 
hesitated  as  to  which  had  occurred  first.  His  elder  brother 
having  died  unmarried,  the  rector  of  Treglith  had  found 
himself  at  the  age  of  fifty-seven  saddled  with  a  large  landed 
estate  and  an  enormous  house,  somewhat  marred  from  the 
point  of  view  of  peaceful  retirement  by  the  proximity  of 
several  coal-mines,  from  which  a  surprising  number  of 
thousands  of  pounds  found  their  way  annually  into  his 
pocket.  A  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords  which  he  had  no 
desire  to  occupy  and  a  voice  in  the  conclaves  of  the  nation 
which  he  was  very  far  from  wishing  to  exercise  were  also 
contingent  on  his  newly  acquired  responsibilities. 

These  several  demands  upon  his  lordship's  time  and 
attention  caused  him  acute  annoyance.  He  had  felt  little 
regret  at  relinquishing  his  cure  of  souls,  for  he  had  never 
been  without  an  uneasy  feeling  that  it  was  incumbent  upon 
him  in  the  exercise  of  his  clerical  functions  to  express  some 
interest  in  the  lives  of  his  parishioners  ;  but  as  he  had  never 
been  able  to  remember  the  names  of  any  of  them,  or  who 
they  were,  or  anything  about  them,  this  had  not  been 
possible,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  be  rid  of  the  suspicion  that 
something  might  be  reasonably  expected  of  him  that  he 
was  not  able  to  carry  out.  The  house,  however,  to  which, 


LORD  CARADOC  AND  A  CRICKET  MATCH.    107 

although  small,  he  had  grown  accustomed,  and  the  twenty- 
six  acres  of  glebe,  most  of  which  he  had  converted  by 
degrees  into  a  botanical  garden  of  some  degree  of  fame 
amongst  horticulturists,  he  was  very  loath  to  give  up. 
Caradoc  Castle,  a  very  old  house  very  much  modernised, 
with  its  formal  gardens,  greenhouses,  orchid  houses,  forcing 
houses,  vineries,  pinetums,  and  what  not,  all  kept  up 
at  vast  expense  in  order  that  the  head  gardener  might  win 
prizes  at  horticultural  shows  all  over  the  kingdom,  thrilled 
him  with  disgust,  and  he  had  never  been  able  to  bring  him- 
self to  inhabit  it.  The  money  that  accrued  to  him  in 
invasions  of  figures  on  the  credit  side  of  his  bank-book  he 
had  not  the  slightest  use  for,  and  having  been  driven  out 
of  his  peaceful  rectory,  he  had  cut  the  knot  of  his  difficulties 
by  removing  himself,  his  books  and  papers  and  his  young 
daughter,  to  the  house  in  Berkeley  Square,  where  he  greatly 
missed  his  garden,  but  had  not,  during  the  five  years  in 
which  he  had  enjoyed  his  new  honours,  been  able  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  acquire  another  house  in  the  country  which 
would  suit  him  better  than  Caradoc  Castle. 

This  was  the  old  gentleman  who  sat  amongst  the  crowd 
at  Lord's  on  a  fine  July  morning  watching  the  progress  of 
the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  cricket  match. 

He  was  a  tall  and  spare  old  gentleman,  somewhat 
•withered  by  the  course  of  years,  like  an  autumn  stalk  of 
uncut  grass  that  has  lost  its  natural  juices,  but  otherwise 
vigorous  and  active.  At  a  time  when  men  of  all  ages  wear 
the  same  sort  of  clothes,  so  that  you  may  see  a  boy  fresh 
from  the  sixth  form  and  his  grandfather  dressed  by  the 
same  tailor,  haberdasher,  hatter,  and  bootmaker,  and  in 
much  the  same  style,  Lord  Caradoc  had  managed  to  pre- 
serve an  old-fashioned  primness  about  his  attire.  His  hat 
had  a  broad  brim.  His  shirt  was  of  fine  unstarched  linen, 
with  wristbands  very  little  stiffened  and  a  front  pleated  in 


io8  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

such  a  way  as  almost  to  suggest  a  frill.  His  coat  was 
hardly  a  frock  coat  and  hardly  what  is  called  a  morning 
coat,  but  partook  of  the  nature  of  both.  It  was  very  neat 
and  very  unobtrusive,  and  fitted  his  tall  spare  figure  very 
well.  His  trousers  were  of  a  dark  pepper-and-salt  pattern, 
narrow,  and  coming  well  down  over  his  square-toed  boots. 
His  tie  of  white  cambric  was  the  only  thing  about  his 
dress  that  suggested  his  profession.  He  wore  round  his 
neck  a  thin  gold  chain,  and  on  his  nose  the  gold-rimmed 
glasses  before  referred  to,  and  he  looked  a  very  aristocratic, 
learned,  precise  gentleman  of  the  old  school. 

The  young  girl  who  sat  beside  him  bore  in  some  unde- 
finable  way  a  resemblance  to  her  father.  She  was  tall,  and, 
young  as  she  was,  and  not  yet  taken  out  and  introduced  to 
the  world,  she  had  the  same  air  of  breeding.  But  there  the 
resemblance  ended.  The  shy  dove's  eyes,  the  soft  cheek  on 
which  the  colour  came  and  went  so  readily,  the  rounded 
slimness  of  her  young  form  in  its  summer  attire  of  dainty 
simplicity,  made  as  great  a  contrast  as  it  would  be  possible 
to  find  to  the  prim  dried-up  old  gentleman  by  her  side. 

The  pair  had  sat  there  since  the  first  ball  had  been 
bowled,  Lord  Caradoc  intently  watching  the  progress  of 
the  game,  and  Cicely,  after  the  first  few  overs  and  a  fallen 
wicket  had  somewhat  taken  the  edge  off  her  interest, 
watching  no  less  intently  the  benches,  now  gradually  filling 
around  her.  Life  was  a  book  of  which  as  yet  she  had 
scarcely  read  more  than  the  preface,  and  that  had  not 
interested  her  greatly.  But  she  had  just  begun  to  realise 
that  the  book  itself  might  be  worth  reading,  although  she 
had  hardly  begun  to  speculate  on  the  contents,  and  these 
people  around  her  were,  perhaps,  some  of  them,  in  the  most 
exciting  chapters.  Hence  her  interest  in  them  and  in  all 
humankind  such  as  had  not,  like  her  father,  readied  the 
duller  pages  towards  the  end. 


LORD  CARADOC  AND  A  CRICKET  MATCH.    109 

When  the  luncheon  interval  arrived  they  walked  together 
on  the  grass,  which  was  soon  covered  with  a  crowd  that 
looked  as  if  it  could  not  possibly  have  contained  itself  in 
the  restricted  limits  to  which  it  had  been  confined  while 
the  great  expanse  of  green  was  given  up  to  the  perambu- 
lations of  thirteen  young  men  and  two  middle-aged  ones. 
All  the  people  who  had  overflowed  the  great  green  lawn 
seemed  to  be  either  talking  or  laughing  to  each  other  or 
meeting  friends  with  whom  they  talked  or  laughed,  breaking 
up  into  fresh  groups  and  continually  stopping  again  and 
re-sorting  themselves ;  and  Cicely  was  inclined  to  think 
that  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  match  might  be  rather 
more  amusing  than  it  was  if  there  were  a  little  less 
cricket  and  a  little  more  walking  and  talking,  and  more 
especially  so  if  she  had  a  great  many  friends  whom  she 
should  constantly  be  meeting,  instead  of  the  one  single  and 
rather  dusty  old  clergyman  who  was  just  now  engaging  her 
father  in  conversation  and  was  the  first  person  so  far  who 
had  done  more  than  greet  them  with  a  sign  of  recognition. 

The  dusty  old  clergyman  proved  to  be  a  college  contem- 
porary of  her  father's  who  actually  had  played  in  the  match 
against  Cambridge  at  a  time  when  Mr.  Owen  Caradoc  had 
left  off  bowling  those  puzzling  underhand  balls,  and  was 
taking  his  first  plunge  into  the  researches  from  which  he 
had  emerged  only  on  very  rare  occasions  ever  since.  Their 
talk  was  of  cricket  of  the  past,  and  Cicely  looked  about 
her  again  to  see  if  there  was  nobody  at  all  whom  she  knew 
amongst  all  that  gay  crowd.  Ah !  This  was  better.  Here 
were  her  cousins,  the  Conders,  a  large  party  of  them, 
with  whom  she  and  her  father  were  to  lunch,  and  with 
them  a  very  good-looking  young  man,  whose  face  seemed 
unaccountably  familiar  to  her,  and  another  tall,  grave 
and  amazingly  well-groomed  young  man  whose  face  was 
not  familiar.  There  was  a  large  number  of  Conders,  all 


no  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

round-faced  and  freckled,  looking  very  clean  and  healthy, 
as  if  they  had  spent  a  considerable  portion  of  their  time 
being  washed  and  then  hung  out  to  dry  in  the  sun. 

There  was  her  uncle,  Lord  Conder,  very  cheerful  and 
bucolic,  with  his  freckles  drowned  in  a  wash  of  vermilion, 
who  said,  "  Howdy  do  ?  Howdy  do  ?  "  very  heartily  to  all 
his  acquaintances.  There  was  Bobby  Conder,  the  member 
of  Parliament,  whose  freckles  had  been  to  some  extent 
eradicated  for  the  time  being  by  late  hours  and  the  insipid 
aif  of  division  lobbies.  There  was  Algy  Conder,  the  Life- 
guardsman,  whose  freckles  had  got  crowded  up  into  a 
sort  of  triangle  of  white  skin  in  a  corner  of  his  forehead, 
while  the  rest  of  his  face  had  been  burnt  into  a  more  fiery 
red  than  that  of  his  father's  by  the  hot  suns  of  Salisbury 
Plain.  There  was  Freddy  Conder,  the  sailor,  whose  freckles 
had  been  spread  all  over  his  face  by  the  sun  and  wind  of 
the  Pacific  Ocean,  and  Dicky  Conder,  home  on  leave  from 
Eton,  whose  freckles  had  overflowed  his  face  and  got  into 
his  hair,  leaving  it  very  bright  and  conspicuous.  And  there 
were  Mary  and  Maggie  and  Florrie  and  Katie  and  Elsie  and 
Daisy  Conder,  a  smiling  collection  of  girls,  ranging  from 
two-and-twenty  down  to  thirteen,  whose  freckles  confined 
themselves  chiefly  to  the  bridges  of  their  little  noses,  and  in 
the  case  of  the  two  elder  ones,  by  dint  of  the  careful  use  of 
veils  and  parasols,  had  almost  been  got  rid  of  for  the  period 
of  the  London  season,  but  not  quite.  All  this  brisk  and 
smiling  bevy  of  round-faced  Conders,  whose  natures  seemed 
to  have  been  touched  by  the  sun  as  well  as  their  faces, 
swarmed  round  Cicely  and  plied  her  with  cousinly  greetings. 
Elsie  and  Daisy,  who  were  twins,  took  hold  of  an  arm  each 
and  constituted  themselves  a  bodyguard.  Cicely  looked 
like  a  blush  rose  between  two  nasturtiums.  The  dusty  old 
clergyman,  somewhat  alarmed  by  this  invasion,  took  him- 
self off,  and  Lord  Caradoc,  shaking  hands  with  a  great 


LORD  CARADOC  AND  A  CRICKET  MATCH,    in 

many  young  people  whom  he  dimly  remembered  having 
seen  somewhere  before,  seemed  to  wake  up  to  the  fact  that 
his  brother-in-law  had  a  family  of  a  considerable  size. 

"  Time  for  lunch,  children !  "  said  cheerful  little  Lord 
Conder.  *'  We  ought  to  be  able  to  pick  up  a  bit  now.  Eh, 
what  ? " 

They  made  their  way  to  the  shady  garden  behind  the 
Pavilion,  where  a  table  was  spread  under  a  tent,  and  where 
Lady  Conder,  a  placid  little  lady,  round-faced,  too,  but  not 
after  the  freckled  Conder  fashion,  was  awaiting  them  with 
two  or  three  other  members  of  their  party.  On  their  way  to 
the  tent  Elsie  and  Daisy  were  detached,  after  some  little 
remonstrance  on  their  part,  from  their  cousin's  side,  and  Guy 
Bertram  was  introduced  to  her  by  Mary,  in  whose  demeanour 
might  have  been  detected  a  considerable  pride  in  Cicely's 
beauty,  and  a  feeling  of  relief  that,  amongst  such  a  plethora 
of  freckled  Conders,  here  was  a  companion  that  a  young 
man  accustomed  to  sun  himself  in  the  beams  of  feminine 
beauty  could  not  but  feel  himself  more  naturally  allied  to. 
But  Guy  took  the  introduction  quite  coolly.  Cicely  was 
very  pretty,  but  she  was  very  young  and  very  shy,  and  he 
soon  dropped  back  to  laugh  and  joke  with  Maggie  and 
Florrie,  while  his  place  was  taken  by  Freddy  Conder,  who 
had  not  seen  his  cousin  for  three  years,  and  was  anxious  to 
rally  her  in  a  breezy  sea- going  way  on  the  immense  improve- 
ment that  had  taken  place  during  that  time  in  her  general 
appearance. 

Cicely  responded  as  well  as  she  could  to  her  cousin's  chaff 
without  paying  much  attention  to  it.  Sir  Guy  Bertram ! 
Of  course,  she  had  recognised  him — the  young  man  whose 
portrait  had  been  in  all  the  illustrated  papers,  who  was  the 
hero  of  such  a  romantic  story,  and  the  owner  of  a  lovely 
place,  which  by  a  strange  turn  in  the  wheel  of  fortune  he  was 
unable  to  inhabit  His  loss  did  not  seem  to  occasion  him 


iia  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

much  regret,  judging  from  the  light-hearted  way  in  which 
he  was  laughing  and  talking  behind  her.  It  would  be 
different  when  the  wickets  were  drawn  in  the  evening,  and 
the  ground  shut  up,  and  all  the  gay  throng  had  dispersed  to 
their  respective  places  of  abode.  Then  he  would  throw  off 
the  gallant  face  with  which  he  met  the  buffets  of  fortune 
before  the  world,  and  brood  over  the  maddening  obstacle 
which  he  was  powerless  to  remove.  Guy's  story,  as  told  in 
the  papers  she  had  read,  had  taken  hold  of  Cicely's  imagina- 
tion. She  felt  very  sorry  for  him,  and  admired  not  a  little 
the  brave  way  in  which  he  was  evidently  facing  his  disap- 
pointment 

Lord  Caradoc,  seated  on  Lady  Conder's  right  at  the  head 
of  the  long  table  crowded  with  cold  viands,  flowers  and 
fruit,  and  cooling  drinks,  seemed  to  wake  up  to  the  con- 
viction that  a  meal  eaten  in  company  was  a  not  unpleasant 
experience,  if  not  repeated  too  often — say  about  six  times  a 
year — and  chatted  quietly,  but  cheerfully,  with  his  hostess 
And  surely  the  table  at  which  he  was  sitting  was  the  gayest 
and  brightest  amongst  the  many  that  were  spread  under 
the  tents  which  surrounded  Lord's  Cricket  Ground.  There 
was  a  continuous  babble  of  talk  and  merry  laughter  from 
the  whole  tribe  of  freckled  Conders  and  their  friends,  and 
everyone  appeared  in  the  highest  good  humour.  A  con- 
stant succession  of  guests  appeared  at  intervals  and  dropped 
into  the  empty  places  at  the  table,  always  with  a  delighted 
word  of  welcome  from  Lord  Conder,  and  everyone  seemed 
to  fall  instantly  into  the  humour  of  their  hosts,  and  began 
to  talk  and  laugh  and  make  jokes  the  moment  they  had 
taken  their  seats,  as  if  the  world  was  the  most  cheerful  and 
interesting  place  imaginable,  and  there  was  never  a  moment 
in  which  to  feel  dull  or  languid  of  mind. 

After  luncheon,  when  the  men  were  left  to  themselves  for 
a  few  minutes,  Bobby  Conder  took  Guy  and  Calthorp  up  to 


LORD  CARADOC  AND  A  CRICKET  MATCH.    113 

the  end  of  the  table  where  Lord  Caradoc  was  sitting,  and 
introduced  them. 

Lord  Caradoc,  under  the  unwonted  stimulus  he  was 
undergoing,  was  perhaps  in  a  more  fitting  frame  of  mind  to 
discuss  a  matter  having  definite  bearings  on  life  in  the 
nineteenth  century  than  would  be  the  case  until  the  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  match  should  come  round  again  in  the 
course  of  the  following  summer.  To  Bobby  Conder's 
inquiry  as  to  whether  he  wasn't  thinking  of  taking  a 
country  house  somewhere  with  a  beautiful  garden  he 
replied  genially : 

"  My  dear  Robert,  take  me  away  from  Berkeley  Square, 
and  put  me  down  anywhere  in  the  country  a  hundred  miles 
away  from  Caradoc  Castle  and  two  hundred  from  a  coal- 
mine, and  you  will  confer  a  favour  on  me  which  1  shall 
endeavour  not  to  forget." 

"  You  have  heard  of  Merrilees,  Bertram's  place  in  Cumber- 
land ?  "  hazarded  Bobby. 

Lord  Caradoc  couldn't  say  that  he  had.  "  Was  there  any 
coal  anywhere  near  it  ?  " 

"  A  few  tons  in  the  cellars.  That's  all,"  said  Guy,  speak- 
ing rather  loudly,  as  if  Lord  Caradoc  was  slightly  deaf, 
which  he  undoubtedly  was  where  ordinary  conversation  was 
concerned. 

"  It  is  that  lovely  place  on  an  island  in  the  middle  of  a  lake 
with  Italian  terraces,"  said  Bobby.  "  You  know,  Uncle  Owen, 
where  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  shut  himself  up  for  so  many 
years." 

"  Roderick  Bertram! "  said  Lord  Caradoc.  "Oh,  I  know 
all  about  Roderick  Bertram.  He  wants  to  let  the  place, 
does  he  ?  " 

"  He's  dead,  you  know,  Uncle  Owen,"  said  Bobby  Conder. 
"  Bertram  here  is  his  cousin.  Merrilees  belongs  to  him  now, 
and  he  wants  to  let  it,  and  to  you,  if  you'll  take  it.** 

H.M.  I 


114  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"It  sounds  very  nice,"  said  Lord  Caradoc.  **  Is  there  a 
bit  of  garden  where  I  could  put  in  a  few  plants  and  see  them 
come  up  ?  That's  what  I  want,  you  know.  Don't  care  a 
bit  about  great  beds  of  geraniums,  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  gardens  in  England," 
said  Guy,  "  and  there  is  hardly  a  formal  bed  in  it.  I  can 
send  you  along  some  photographs,  if  you  like." 

"Sounds  very  nice,"  said  Lord  Caradoc  again.  "Not 
overlooked  at  all,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  It  stands  alone  on  an  island  in  the  middle  of  a  lake, 
Uncle  Owen,"  said  Bobby  Conder. 

"And  there's  a  park  round  the  lake,  and  a  high  wall 
round  the  park,"  added  Guy. 

"  Come,  that's  better,"  said  Lord  Caradoc.  "  Sounds  as 
if  you  might  keep  pretty  quiet  if  you  wished  to,  and  do  a 
little  writing  and  so  forth.  Is  there  a  room  in  the  house 
where  I  could  put  a  few  books  and  papers  ?  " 

"  There's  a  very  fine  library,"  said  Guy. 

"Any  good  books  ?  "  inquired  Lord  Caradoc. 

"  Yes,"  said  Guy.  "  The  whole  collection  must  be  a 
good  one.  I  believe  my  cousin,  Sir  Roderick  Bertram, 
added  to  it  very  largely." 

Lord  Caradoc  turned  round  sharply  in  his  chair. 

"  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  1  "  he  exclaimed,  "  the  man  who 
bought  the  Ffoulkes  Library !  God  bless  my  soul !  His 
house,  is  it  ?  Why  didn't  you  say  so  before  ?  Oh,  I'll 
take  the  house  by  all  means.  If  you  will  kindly  instruct 
your  men  of  business  to  communicate  with  my  men  of 
business,  Messrs. — Messrs. — the  name  escapes  me  for  the 
moment,  but  if  Robert  will  come  round  with  me  to 
Berkeley  Square  this  evening,  I  can  tell  him.  Oh,  the 
Ffoulkes  Library !  I'm  very  much  indebted  to  you  for 
giving  me  the  opportunity  of  taking  the  place." 

**  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  have  such  a  tenant,  Lord 


LORD  CARADOC  AND  A  CRICKET  MATCH.    .15 

Caradoc,"  said  Guy.  *  I  will  give  you  any  other  information 
about  the  place  that  you  may  like  to  hear.  Mr.  Calthorp  will 
act  for  me  as  far  as  business  arrangements  are  concerned." 

Guy  indicated  Calthorp,  with  whom  Lord  Caradoc  cour- 
teously shook  hands,  oblivious  of  his  previous  introduction. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ? "  said  Lord  Caradoc.  "  My 
solicitors,  Messrs.  Walters  and  Venable,  of  Lombard  Street, 
are  good  enough  to  take  the  burden  of  financial  manage- 
ment off  my  shoulders.  If  you  will  kindly  communicate 
with  them,  they  will  no  doubt  signify  me  when  the  necessary 
preliminaries  are  completed.  That  is  all,  I  suppose,  that  we 
can  do  in  the  matter  at  present.  And,  Robert,  you  will  come 
round  to  Berkeley  Square,  will  you,  before  dinner,  to—'* 

"  To  get  the  names  of  Messrs.  Walters  and  Venable,  of 
Lombard  Street,  Uncle  Owen  ? "  inquired  Bobby  Conder, 
with  a  broad  grin  on  his  face. 

"  Ah,  that's  it ;  that's  the  name,"  acquiesced  Lord  Caradoc. 
"  But,  bless  my  soul,  boy,"  he  added  in  great  amazement, 
"  how  did  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  The  name  is  a  household  word,"  put  in  Calthorp.  "  I 
will  communicate  with  them  at  once." 

"  There  is  one  thing,  perhaps,  that  I  ought  to  mention," 
said  Guy.  "  My  cousin,  Roderick  Bertram,  died  at  Merrilees 
a  short  time  ago,  under  somewhat  mysterious  circumstances, 
and " 

"  Dear  me,  1  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that,"  said  Lord 
Caradoc.  "  He  had  been  ill  some  months,  had  he  not  ?  I 
do  not  recollect  meeting  with  him  lately." 

"Nobody  has  seen  him  for  five-and-twenty  years,"  said 
Guy,  somewhat  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  bring  home  what 
everybody  was  talking  about  to  one  who  showed  himself  so 
sublimely  unconscious  of  popular  interests.  "  He  died  sud- 
denly, but  the  circumstances  of  his  death  were  not  so  mys- 
terious as  the  sudden  disappearance  of  his  body  the  day  after.** 

i  a 


Ii6  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  commented  Lord  Caradoc. 

"ft  might  be  necessary,"  said  Calthorp,  "to  insert  a 
clause  in  our  agreement  to  the  effect  that  we  reserve  to  our- 
selves the  right  of  entrance  to  the  house  at  any  time,  in 
order  to  clear  up  the  mystery." 

"  I  should  have  no  objection  to  that,"  said  Lord  Caradoc, 
"  provided  I  could  keep  my  few  books  and  papers  undis- 
turbed, and  that  as  little  noise  might  be  made  as  possible. 
But  details  of  that  sort  had  better  be  discussed  with  my 
men  of  business." 

"We  shall  give  you  as  little  trouble  as  possible,"  said 
Calthorp. 

Cicely  did  not  return  to  her  seat  by  her  father  after 
luncheon.  She  was  happier  on  the  box  seat  of  her  uncle's 
drag,  which  was  drawn  up  in  a  position  favourable  for 
watching  both  the  progress  of  the  game  and  the  stream  of 
people  which  flowed  outside  the  line  of  carriages  and  the 
huge  encircling  stands,  people  who  made  sudden  efforts  to 
catch  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  the  players  when  an  outburst  of 
cheering  indicated  that  something  worth  seeing  had  been 
done  at  the  wickets  or  in  the  field,  and  then  contentedly 
resumed  their  perambulations.  Here,  somewhat  to  her 
surprise — she  was  not  quite  sure  whether  she  was  pleased 
or  not — Guy  Bertram  climbed  from  the  back  of  the  coach 
and  sat  down  beside  her,  dispossessing  a  Conder  twin  for 
the  second  time,  much  to  that  twin's  disappointment. 

"  Your  father  is  going  to  be  my  tenant  in  my  house  in 
Cumberland,  Miss  Caradoc,"  said  Guy.  "  We  haven't 
taken  long  to  settle  it  up,  have  we  ?  " 

Cicely  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  a  blush  rising  to  her 
forehead  and  spreading  over  her  cheeks. 

"  My  father  ?  "  she  said.    "  Merrilees  ?  " 

"  Ah,  you  have  read  about  the  place,  I  suppose ;  every- 
body has  been  talking  about  it  lately.  Yes,  Bobby  thought 


LORD  CARADOC  AND  A  CRICKET  MATCH.    117 

he  might  like  it,  you  know.  It  is  a  lovely  place  with  a 
lovely  garden,  and  it  seems  there  is  a  library  of  books 
which  Lord  Caradoc  wants  to  have  the  use  of.  So  our 
respective  lawyers  are  going  to  settle  it  all  up  for  us." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  live  in  the  country  again,"  said 
Cicely ;  "  London  is  rather  dull  for  me,  except  to-day :  I 
like  this." 

"  You  will  like  Merrilees,  I  expect,"  said  Guy.  '*  It 
really  is  a  lovely  place.  I  wish  I  could  afford  to  live  there 
myself,  but  I  can't,  so  it's  no  good  grumbling  about  it." 

"  Do  you  want  to  live  there  very  much  ?  "  asked  Cicely, 
shyly. 

"  Rather !  "  replied  Guy,  quite  cheerfully.  "  If  you  come 
across  a  million  and  a  half  pounds'  worth  of  jewels  lying 
about  the  house  anywhere  you'll  let  me  know,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  find  them  for  you,"  said  Cicely, 
seriously. 

"  Ah,  I'm  afraid  that  isn't  so  easy.  Mr.  Martin,  of  whom 
you  have  probably  read,  has  made  a  clean  sweep  of  them, 
and  here  am  I  in  consequence  an  unfortunate  beggar  with 
very  little  to  bless  himself  with.  Everybody  knows  all 
about  me  through  the  kind  offices  of  the  daily  press,  so,  you 
see,  I've  nothing  to  conceal.  Oh,  excuse  me,  I  must  go  and 
talk  to  those  people." 

Guy  clambered  somewhat  hurriedly  off  the  coach,  and 
Cicely  watched  him  go  up  to  a  tall  handsome  man  who 
was  passing  in  company  with  a  girl,  dark  and  very  pretty, 
and.  well  dressed  in  a  simple  costume  that  bore  the  stamp 
of  Paris.  She  saw  him  stop  the  man,  who  greeted  him 
with  warmth,  and  shake  hands  with  the  girl,  who  turned  a 
laughing,  roguish  face  on  him,  and  then  the  three  were  lost 
in  the  crowd  of  people  walking  round  and  round  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  X. 

OUT   BERTRAM   RECEIVES  AN   INVITATIOW. 

"WHY,  I  thought  you  were  pursuing  your  studies  in 
Paris,  Miss  Peggy,"  said  Guy  as  they  moved  on. 

"  Do  you  know  what  this  young  monkey  has  done  ?  '* 
asked  George.  "  She  has  run  away  from  school." 

"  Not  run  away,  exactly,  George,"  said  Peggy.  *  I  came 
home." 

"  She  came  home,"  said  George.  "  She  threw  obedience 
to  the  autncrities  provided  for  her  to  the  winds,  and  came 
home." 

"  I  had  enough  of  it,"  explained  Peggy.  "  Dresden  was 
all  very  well,  and  Paris  wasn't  so  bad  at  first,  but  I  got 
homesick,  and  I  didn't  like  Madame  Gue'rin,  so  I  told  her 
I  was  coming  home,  and  1  came." 

"  That's  all,"  said  George.  "  Quite  simple.  She  told 
Madame  Gue'rin  she  was  coming  home,  and  she  came. 
She  has  omitted  to  state  that  she  is  going  back  on 
Monday." 

"  Never,"  said  Peggy,  very  firmly.     *'  /*y  suts.    J*y  reste." 

"Keep  it  slow,  and  give  the  vowels  their  full  value, 
and  I  shall  be  able  to  follow  you,"  said  Guy.  "  Well,  I 
applaud  your  resolution.  London  isn't  half  a  bad  place 
just  now." 

"It's  perfectly  heavenly,"  said  Peggy,  enthusiastically. 
**  I  wouldn't  go  back  to  Paris  after  this  for  anything." 

"  We  shall  see  when  Monday  morning  comes,"  said 
George.  "  Papa  has  been  communicated  with,  but  he  lives 


GUY  BERTRAM  RECEIVES  AN  INVITATION.  119 

in  Glasgow,  and  until  we  hear  from  him  we  are  making 
the  most  of  our  opportunities." 

At  the  end  of  a  pleasant  hour,  spent  in  the  company  of 
George  and  Peggy,  Guy  ventured  to  assert,  somewhat 
diffidently,  that  he  had  been  intending  for  some  time  to 
call  on  Mrs.  Greenfield  in  Highgate. 

"  She'll  be  very  pleased  to  see  you,"  said  George.  "  We 
have  never  forgotten  the  day  in  Cambridge  when  you  were 
so  kind  in  looking  after  us,  have  we,  Peg  ?  Come  up 
with  me  on  Sunday  morning  to  lunch,  or,  rather,  early 
dinner.  We'll  all  go  for  a  walk  afterwards  if  it's  fine." 

Peggy  did  not  second  the  invitation  verbally,  but  a 
questioning  glance  into  her  black  eyes  served  to  encourage 
Guy  to  accept  it. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  he  said.     "  Good-bye  till  Sunday." 

At  the  end  of  the  day's  play  George  took  Peggy  home  to 
Highgate.  She  was  delighted  with  her  experiences  and 
chattered  gaily,  but  as  their  cab  slowly  climbed  the  steep 
hill  on  the  summit  of  which  the  cottage  stood  she  became 
silent. 

"  You  know,  George,"  she  said  presently,  "  I  don't  think 
mother  looks  a  bit  well.  She  seems  to  be  worried  about 
something." 

"  That  is  easily  understood,"  said  George,  drily. 

Peggy  looked  a  little  graver.  "  George,  dear,"  she  said, 
44 1  don't  think  it  is  because  of  me  coming  home,  really. 
If  father  is  angry  about  it,  he  couldn't  possibly  blame 
her." 

George  made  no  reply  to  this,  but  the  look  on  his  face 
might  have  been  taken  to  mean  that  Mr.  Richards  had 
better  not  blame  his  mother  for  anything  while  he  was  by. 

"  She  didn't  make  a  fuss  about  my  coming  home,"  con- 
tinued Peggy.  "  In  fact,  she  seemed  glad  to  have  me.  Of 
course,  it  is  lonely  for  her,  poor  dear,  living  so  much  by 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

herself.  She  said  she  must  write  to  father  and  ask  what 
was  to  be  done  about  me,  but  when  she  had  done  that 
she  said  nothing  more  about  it.  I  am  sure  there  is 
something  else  that  is  worrying  her." 

*'  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  George,  shortly. 

"  I  don't  know.  But  couldn't  you  stay  at  home  for  a 
few  days  ?  She  is  always  happy  when  you  are  there.  I 
am  sure  it  would  cheer  her  up.  Besides,  I  want  you  to  so 
much." 

"  I  will  stay  to-night,"  said  George,  after  a  pause.  "  I 
must  be  in  town  to-morrow  and  Saturday  night,  but  I 
shall  be  up  again  on  Sunday." 

"  It  was  nice  meeting  Mr.  Bertram  again — Sir  Guy 
Bertram,  I  mean — wasn't  it?"  said  Peggy,  in  a  tone  of 
elaborate  unconcernedness.  "I  expect  mother  will  be 
glad  to  see  him  on  Sunday." 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  good  chap,"  said  George,  absently.  He 
was  thinking  of  Mr.  Richards,  and  his  face  was  not  very 
amiable  at  that  moment. 

George  looked  carefully  at  his  mother  when  he  had  paid 
the  cabman,  and  followed  Peggy  into  the  cottage,  where 
she  was  waiting  for  him.  She  was  very  pleased  to  see  him 
and  to  hear  that  he  was  going  to  stay  until  the  next 
morning.  But  she  looked  undoubtedly  worried  and 
anxious. 

"  What  is  it,  mother,  darling  ?  "  asked  George,  drawing 
her  into  the  parlour,  when  Peggy  had  gone  upstairs. 
"  Have  you  heard  from  Richards  yet  about  that  naughty 
girl?" 

"  Not  yet.  There  has  hardly  been  time,  unless  he  had 
telegraphed.  I  am  so  glad  to  have  you  here  for  a  little 
time,  my  dearest  boy." 

George  kissed  her.  **  I  am  coming  up  again  on  Sunday," 
he  said.  *  I  daresay  I  might  stay  for  a  day  or  two,  or  at 


GUY  BERTRAM  RECEIVES  AN  INVITATION.  121 

any  rate  come  up  in  the  evenings.  And  I  am  going  to 
bring  a  friend  of  yours  to  see  you  on  Sunday,  mother." 

"  A  friend  ?  "  echoed  Mrs.  Greenfield.  "  What  friend, 
George  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  a  young  man  who  was  very  kind  to 
you  and  Peggy  at  Cambridge  two  years  ago  ?  " 

He  was  astonished  at  the  change  in  his  mother's  face. 
She  grew  pale  and  almost  gasped. 

"Not  Sir  Guy  Bertram!"  she  exclaimed.  "No,  no, 
George,  you  mustn't  bring  him  here.** 

"  Mother  dear,  why  on  earth  not  ?  "  said  George  in  utter 
amazement. 

"  I  had  no  idea  when  we  were  at  Cambridge  that  he  was 
— that  he  was  the  Sir  Guy  Bertram  that  all  the  papers 
have  been  talking  about." 

"  Well,  he  wasn't  then.  But,  dear  mother,  what  possible 
objection  can  you  have  to  his  coming  here  ?  He  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  and  all  this  that  has  happened  lately  makes 
no  difference  in  him.  Why  mustn't  I  bring  him  here  ?  " 

Mrs.  Greenfield  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  table.  She 
seemed  to  be  collecting  her  thoughts. 

"  You  know,  George,"  she  said  quietly,  "  I  stand  in  the 
place  of  a  mother  to  Peggy.  She  is  very  young  yet,  and — 
and " 

"  And  what,  mother  ?  "  asked  George,  his  face  becoming 
rather  hard. 

"  Have  you  seen  Sir  Guy  Bertram  to-day  ? "  she  asked, 
ignoring  his  question.  "  Has  Peggy  seen  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  was  at  Lord's.  He  said  he  had  been  meaning 
to  call  on  you.  So  I  asked  him  to  come  up  with  me  on 
Sunday." 

"  You  see,  dear  George,  it  is  over  a  year  since  we  met 
Sir  Guy  Bertram,  but  it  is  only  to-day  that  he  suggests 
coming  to  call  on  me." 


laa  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEEb. 

"  What  of  that,  mother?  " 

"  Peggy  is  very  pretty  and  very  taking.  But  we  are  not 
— her  father  is  not — in  the  same  position  as  Sir  Guy 
Bertram.  I  know — I  know  he  would  object  to  it  very 
much  if — if  anyone  like  that  were  to  pay  her  attentions." 

George  laughed. 

"  Oh,  really,  mother,"  he  said,  "  I  think  this  is  a  little 
premature.  Such  a  thing  never  entered  my  head.  Bertram 
is  a  year  older  than  I  am,  and  has  seen  a  great  deal  of  the 
world  ;  Peggy  is  a  mere  schoolgirl." 

A  ghost  of  a  smile  passed  over  Mrs.  Greenfield's  pale 
face. 

"  She  is  over  nineteen,"  she  said,  "  and  very  pretty.  Sir 
Guy  Bertram  was  attracted  by  her  two  years  ago,  and  his 
wanting  to  come  here  now,  amongst  people  so  unlike  those 
he  mixes  with,  shows  that  there  is  still  some  attraction. 
A  woman  sees  those  things,  George  dear,  and  I  am  not 
mistaken." 

George  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  You  may  be  right,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  deny  that  he  is 
attracted  by  her.  It  is  obvious  enough.  Anybody  would 
be.  But  it  is  quite  open  and  above  board,  and  for  a  man 
like  that  to  talk  and  laugh  with  a  lively  child  like  Peggy 
is  not  the  same  thing  as  falling  in  love  with  her." 

"  It  might  lead  to  that." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  My  dear  mother,  if  you  heard  the 
way  in  which  he  talks  to  her  1  I  really  believe  it  is  the 
last  thing  that  would  enter  into  his  head." 

"  Perhaps  so.  But,  George  dear,  what  about  Peggy  ?  Do 
you  think  it  is  fair  on  her  to  let  a  gentleman  like  Sir  Guy 
Bertram  come  here  and  be  on  intimate  terms  with  her,  if 
falling  in  love  with  her,  as  you  say,  is  the  last  thing  that 
would  enter  his  head  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  she  has  any  more  idea  of  such  a  thing 


GUY  BERTRAM  RECEIVES  AN  INVITATION.  123 

than  he  has,"  replied  George,  somewhat  impatiently.  **  She 
is  much  too  young." 

"  Oh,  George,  George  1  "  said  his  mother.  "  What  do  you 
know  about  the  ways  of  a  girl's  heart  ?  No.  She  has  no 
idea  of  such  a  thing  at  present,  not  consciously  at  any  rate. 
And  I  want  to  prevent  the  idea  coming  to  her  before  it  is 
too  late." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  George,  rather  unwillingly. 
"One  is  apt  to  forget,  perhaps,  that  one's  place  in  the 
world  has  to  be  made  and  has  not  come  by  birth,  and  that 
such  differences  are  thought  a  great  deal  of  by  many 
people.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  such  possibilities  as  have 
occurred  to  you  would  not  have  occurred  to  me,  but  I 
would  not  encourage  Bertram  to  come  here  if  there  are 
such  possibilities.  And  yet  I  don't  know.  One  must  be 
honest  about  these  things.  After  all,  mother,  supposing 
Bertram  did  fall  in  love  with  Peggy,  and  she  with  him,  it 
would  be  a  very  happy  marriage  for  her.  It  seems  rather 
absurd  to  look  so  far  ahead,  for  Peggy  is  little  more  than  a 
child.  But,  I  say,  if  it  were  to  come  about  in  the  future  I 
don't  know  anybody  to  whom  I  would  rather  give  my 
little  sister.** 

"  If  she  were  really  your  sister.  But  her  father  would 
never  allow  it,  never." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  George,  now  veering  round,  and 
inclined  to  support  an  idea  to  which  Mr.  Richards  might 
be  likely  to  take  exception.  "There  is  nothing  against 
Bertram.  He  is  an  idle  man,  perhaps,  but  he  has  never 
been  brought  up  to  work,  and  his  idleness  at  any  rate  is  not 
mischievous.  He  is  well  off,  even  if  this  extraordinary 
stolen  property  never  comes  to  him  ;  and  as  for  his  position, 
after  all  it  isn't  usually  considered  a  drawback  to  a  man 
when  he  marries.  Why  should  Richards  object  ?  ** 

"George    dear,  to  please   me,  can't   you  put  Sir  Guy 


124  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

Bertram  off  ?  "  pleaded  Mrs.  Greenfield.  "  I  am  so  fearful 
of  trouble  coming  of  it,  and  I  do  really  believe  that  if  he 
were  to  come  here,  and  Mr.  Richards  were  to  hear  of  it,  as 
he  would,  he  would  take  Peggy  away.  I  don't  want  to  lose 
her." 

George's  face  was  dark. 

"  The  man  seems  to  have  the  power  of  dictating  to  us 
whatever  we  do,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  I  must  write  to  Guy 
and  say  that — I  don't  know  what  I  can  say.  I  hate  doing 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"  You  may  say  that  I  am  not  well  enough  to  see  him.  It 
is  quite  true." 

"  What  is  it,  little  mother  ?  "  asked  George,  putting  his 
arm  round  her.  "  What  are  you  worrying  yourself  about  ?  " 

Mrs.  Greenfield's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  your  old  mother,"  she  said.  "  I 
think  I  can  be  happy  with  my  two  children.  I  didn't  say 
so  to  Peggy,  but  my  heart  just  leapt  for  pleasure  when  I 
saw  her  sweet,  naughty  face  coming  in  at  the  door.  I  have 
begged  her  father  to  let  her  stay  with  me  now." 

George's  heart  smote  him.  "I  will  come  and  live  up 
here,  mother,  if  he  sends  her  back,"  he  said. 

"  No,  George,"  said  Mrs.  Greenfield,  firmly.  "  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  that  degree  of  separation,  and  I  see 
you  oftener  than  when  you  were  at  Cambridge,  though  not 
for  such  a  long  time  together.  You  have  got  your  work  to 
do,  and  you  must  do  it  in  the  best  way  you  can.  If  only  I 
am  allowed  to  keep  Peggy,  and  can  see  you  as  often  as  I 
have  done,  I  shall  be  content." 

"At  any  rate  I  will  come  up  on  Saturday  afternoon,** 
said  George.  "  I  can  easily  put)  off  my  dinner  engagement. 
We  will  be  together  for  that  little  time,  at  any  rate,  whether 
Miss  Peggy  is  packed  off  to  school  again  or  not.  I  will  write 
to  Bertram  to-morrow." 


GUY  BERTRAM  RECEIVES  AN  INVITATION.  125 

Friday  and  Saturday  passed  without  any  word  coming 
from  Mr.  Richards.  Peggy,  in  spite  of  the  bold  face  she 
put  upon  her  elopement  from  the  rigours  of  Madame 
Gu6rin's  establishment,  was  obviously  a  little  nervous. 

*'  I  am  not  going  back  again,  whatever  he  says,"  she  said 
to  George,  who  was  sitting  in  the  little  garden  with  her  on 
Saturday  afternoon.  "  Mother  wants  me  here  ;  I  know  she 
does.  But  I  shall  feel  so  much  more  comfortable  when  it  is 
all  settled." 

By  the  late  post  on  Saturday  evening  George  received  a 
note  from  Guy  Bertram,  written  that  morning  from  a 
country  house  near  St.  Albans. 

"  I  came  down  here  suddenly  yesterday,"  he  wrote,  "  but 
am  leaving  on  Sunday  morning,  and  shall  come  straight  to 
Highgate,  as  I  see  I  can  get  there  without  going  into 
town." 

"Then  the  matter  is  out  of  our  hands,"  said  George. 
"  It  is  too  late  to  write,  and  too  late  to  wire.  And  you  are 
better  now,  mother,  aren't  you  ?  "  he  asked,  remembering 
that  Peggy  was  in  the  room. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Greenfield,  resigning  herself  to  the 
inevitable.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  Sir  Guy  Bertram.*' 

Peggy  said  nothing,  but  if  she  had  lifted  her  eyes  from  her 
needlework  the  others  might  have  had  reason  to  suppose 
that  she  too  would  be  pleased  to  see  Sir  Guy  Bertram. 


CHAPTER  XL 

MR.  RICHARDS   IS   DISPLEASED. 

A  VERT  agreeable  and  pleasant-mannered  young  man 
Sir  Guy  Bertram  proved  himself  to  be  when  he  made  his 
appearance  at  the  cottage  as  the  people  were  pouring  out 
of  the  church  close  at  hand  on  Sunday  morning,  whether 
sitting  and  talking  in  the  shade  of  the  little  garden  or  at 
the  early  dinner  in  the  low-ceiled  dining-room.  He  talked 
a  great  deal  to  Mrs.  Greenfield  during  the  progress  of  the 
meal,  and  did  not  address  himself  very  conspicuously  to 
Peggy ;  and  George,  remembering  the  lunch  at  Cambridge 
two  years  before,  during  which  that  young  lady  had  been 
skilfully  drawn  out  to  take  the  leading  part  in  the  conver- 
sation, and  observing  her  present  somewhat  demure  atti- 
tude, pooh-poohed  within  himself  his  mother's  fears.  Mrs. 
Greenfield  may  probably  have  drawn  a  different  conclusion 
from  the  altered  state  of  things,  but  she  also  seemed  to 
have  thrown  off  the  fears  she  had  expressed,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  meal,  when  she  and  Peggy  left  the  young  men  to 
their  cigarettes,  she  seemed  quite  cheered  by  what  was  to 
her  an  unusual  event,  for  she  lived  very  quietly  at  Highgate, 
and  seldom  ate  a  meal  in  any  other  company  but  that  of 
George  and  Peggy. 

"  He  *s  nice,  mother,  isn't  he?  "  said  Peggy,  putting  her  arm 
into  that  of  the  elder  woman  as  they  went  into  the  parlour. 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Greenfield.  "But  we  mustn't 
expect  to  see  him  very  often,  you  know.  Young  men  like 
Sir  Guy  Bertram  do  not  often  visit  at  the  houses  of  quiet 


MR.  RICHARDS  IS  DISPLEASED.         xa; 

people  like  ourselves,  and  we  must  be  content  to  make  our 
friends  in  our  own  class  of  life." 

"  \\Tierever  he  visits,  I'm  sure  he  doesn't  often  see  ladies 
as  nice  as  you,"  said  Peggy,  kissing  her.  "  And  I'm  sure  he 
isn't  one  of  those  people  who  make  a  great  fuss  about  their 
titles,"  she  added,  out  of  her  vast  experience. 

Jane,  the  neat  little  servant,  recounting  the  course  of 
events  to  a  dapper  young  grocer's  assistant,  who  accom- 
panied her  in  her  afternoon  walk,  was  of  opinion  that  Guy 
was  better- looking  even  than  his  photograph  in  the  shop- 
windows. 

"There  he  sat,"  she  said,  "just  as  it  might  be  you, 
Augustus,  and  not  a  bit  of  pride  neither.  He  passed  the 
remark  that  it  was  a  fine  morning  when  I  opened  the  door 
to  him,  as  pleasant  as  possible.  I  thought  he'd  have  given 
me  a  card  to  take  in,  and  I  had  the  salver  ready  and  was 
all  of  a  flutter.  But  he  just  said,  '  Sir  Guy  Bertram,'  quite 
simple  like  that,  and  Mr.  George  came  in  from  the  garden 
and  took  him  out.  And  at  dinner,"  continued  Jane,  who 
was  of  a  loyal  and  affectionate  character,  "  there  was 
mistress  sitting  and  talking  quite  calm,  for  all  the  world  as 
if  she'd  been  a  lady  of  title  herself.  And  it's  my  belief, 
Augustus,  and  say  it  I  would  though  you  was  to  take  me 
to  the  block  the  next  minute,  that  he's  come  here  after  our 
Miss  Peggy.  He  pretended  not  to  take  much  notice  of  her, 
and  talked  most  to  mistress  and  to  Mr.  George.  But  there, 
you  can't  take  me  in  that  way  I've  got  eyes  in  my  head 
though  I  says  it  as  shouldn't,  and  I  do  say  that,  if  it  so 
happens,  never  do  I  wish  to  set  eyes  on  a  handsomer  couple 
than  them  two." 

"  Ah,  it's  all  good  looks  with  you,"  said  Augustus,  who 
was  not  eminently  favoured  in  that  respect  himself.  "  It 
was  always  Mr.  George  and  his  good  looks.  Now  it's  this 
Sir  Guy  Bertram  who's  cut  him  out** 


l«8  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  No,  nor  never  will,"  said  Jane  decisively.  "  I  always  did 
say, and  always  will  say,  that  Mr.  George  has  got  a  noble  'ead, 
and  now  I've  seen  a  Sir  I  don't  think  no  different.  But 
lor' !  Augustus,"  she  added,  pressing  the  arm  of  the  despon- 
dent grocer,  "  what's  all  that  to  the  likes  of  you  and  me  ? 
We  knows  our  place,  I  suppose,  and  don't  want  to  be  no 
different.  The  first  thing  I  think  of  when  I  get  up  of  a 
Monday  morning  is,  '  Only  six  more  days  to  Sunday  after- 
noon,' and  the  week  goes  so  fast  that  when  Sunday  comes 
round  I  can  'ardly  believe  it." 

"  I  know  I'm  not  a  toff,"  said  Augus  us,  who  liked  this 
method  of  treatment,  and  was  not  unwilling  to  lay  himself 
out  for  more  of  it.  "  I  can't  give  you  a  'ome  with  flunkeys 
and  kerridges,  Jenny,"  which  led  to  a  discussion  of  the  kind 
of  home  he  could  give  her,  if  things  turned  out  well,  and  of 
the  time  when  it  might  be  expected  to  be  forthcoming,  and 
of  what  they  would  do  when  they  got  it,  so  that  Augustus's 
soul  was  appeased,  and  Jane  went  back  to  the  cottage  at 
the  end  of  the  afternoon  determined  to  work  harder  than 
ever  during  the  week,  so  that  the  time  would  slip  the  more 
quickly  by  and  bring  Sunday  afternoon  again. 

Peggy,  George,  and  Guy  also  set  out  for  a  walk  on  that 
Sunday  afternoon  to  Hampstead  Heath,  that  great  high- 
lying  common  which  Constable  and  Turner  painted,  and 
many  artists  and  poets  have  loved,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
great  mass  of  work-a-day  people,  neither  painters  nor 
poets,  possibly  with  little  appreciation  of  either,  but  just 
city-bred  folk  of  the  commonest  clay,  who  betake  them- 
selves thither  in  their  thousands  and  gain  a  little  rest  for 
brain  and  body  in  the  wind  and  the  sun  and  the  spreading 
distance. 

As  they  passed  one  of  the  old  red  brick  houses  near  the 
cottage  a  white-haired  old  gentleman  came  out  of  the  gate, 
attended  by  half  a  dozen  young  people. 


MR.  RICHARDS  IS  DISPLEASED.         129 

"  Why,  what  is  this  ?  "  cried  the  old  gentleman.  "  Peggy 
home  again  ?  " 

They  had  to  stop  and  merge  themselves  in  the  larger 
group,  who  were  bound  for  the  same  place  as  themselves. 
Matters  had  to  be  explained  in  full  to  the  old  gentleman, 
and  as  it  was  not  possible  to  walk  all  together  down  the 
somewhat  crowded  lane  which  led  to  the  Heath,  and  the 
larger  party  had  pairings  of  their  own  to  make,  Guy  found 
himself  walking  with  Peggy,  while  George  was  held  in  con- 
versation by  the  old  gentleman. 

Peggy  was  quite  friendly  and  confidential,  and  chattered 
like  a  lively  magpie,  but  in  a  much  more  musical  voice. 
She  told  Guy  all  about  her  life  in  Dresden,  which  she  had 
loved,  and  her  life  in  Paris,  which  she  had  loathed.  She 
gave  him  the  whole  thrilling  story  of  her  flight,  and  expressed 
her  determination  not  to  budge  a  foot  from  Highgate,  what- 
ever view  her  father  might  take  of  her  escapade.  Guy  was 
considerably  amused. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  stand  very  much  in  awe  of  your 
parent,"  he  observed. 

"  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that,"  replied  Peggy.  "  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  rather  afraid  of  him.  Only  he 
can't  possibly  know  that  if  I  don't  show  it,  can  he  ?  " 

"Of  course  not.  Still  somebody  might  tell  him,  and 
where  would  you  be  then  ?  " 

"  Nobody  knows  except  you,  and  you  won't  tell,  will 
you?" 

"  Wild  horses  shouldn't  drag  it  from  me." 

"  And  you'll  see,"  said  Peggy  with  a  little  nod,  "  I  shall 
get  my  own  way.  Now,"  she  added,  "I  have  talked 
enough  about  myself.  In  fact,  I  think  I  have  told  you 
everything  there  is.  It  is  your  turn  now  to  tell  me 
something." 

"What  shall  I  tell  you?"  askfd  Guy. 

H.lf.  B 


130  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  Oh,  you  have  got  heaps  to  tell.  In  fact,  you  are  so 
much  more  important  than  I  am  that  you  ought  really  to 
have  begun  first.  Do  you  know,  they  wouldn't  believe  me 
in  Paris  when  I  told  them  that  I  knew  you.  Tell  me  all 
about  that  lovely  house  and  the  gardens." 

Guy  described  Merrilees  to  her  at  some  length,  and  she 
listened  intently. 

"It  all  sounds  very  lovely,"  she  said,  when  he  had 
finished.  **  And  to  think  of  that  poor  Sir  Roderick  shutting 
himself  up  there  all  those  years  and  letting  no  one  share  it 
with  him !  It  was  for  love  of  his  wife,  wasn't  it  ?  The 
girls  at  Madame  Gu&in's  said  it  was  the  most  beautiful 
thing  they  had  ever  heard  of.  But  I  don't  know.  I  think 
it  would  have  been  nobler  of  him  to  go  on  with  his  work 
in  the  world." 

"He  did  that,"  said  Guy.  "He  spent  all  those  long 
years  in  writing  a  great  book.  There  are  piles  and  piles 
of  manuscript  all  in  his  own  writing.  I  saw  them  in  the 
room  where  he  spent  most  of  his  days.  I  don't  know 
whether  he  ever  meant  it  to  be  published.  Some  day  I  will 
show  it  to  somebody — to  George  perhaps  ;  he  is  a  scholar — 
and  take  his  advice  about  it." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Peggy,  very  wisely.  **  I  thought  that  a  man 
like  Sir  Roderick  could  never  bear  to  spend  his  days  in 
idleness.  I  have  read  all  I  could  about  him,  and  every- 
body says  that  if  he  had  remained  in  Parliament  he 
would  have  become  a  very  great  man.  I  wonder  you 
don't  take  more  interest  in  his  book.  It  must  be  some 
thing  quite  out  of  the  common  if  he  devoted  hims»lf  to 
it  all  those  years." 

"  I  expect  it  is.  But  I  have  had  other  things  to  think 
about,"  said  Guy. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  of  the  unexplained  mystery  of  the 
disappearance  of  Sir  Roderick's  body,  though  it  was  in  the 


MR.  RICHARDS  IS  DISPLEASED.         131 

background  of  their  minds.  Perhaps  it  was  to  escape 
mention  of  it,  although  no  such  caution  was  necessary,  that 
Peggy  asked  rather  hurriedly, 

"  Aren't  you  simply  enraged  with  that  terrible  man  for 
stealing  all  those  jewels  ?  " 

"  Well,  do  you  know,"  said  Guy,  "  I  am  getting  over  it. 
Certainly  it  was  a  jar  to  think  that  one  was  going  to  be 
very  rich  and  live  in  a  place  like  that,  and  then  to  find  that 
one  couldn't  after  all.  But  I  claim  to  be  something  of  a 
philosopher.  I  may  get  it  all  some  day,  but  in  the  mean- 
time I  persuade  myself  that  I  don't  very  much  want  to  live 
at  Merrilees.  In  fact,  I  am  rather  excited  at  present  about 
living  somewhere  else.  I  am  going  to  build  myself  a 
cottage  in  Surrey.  Shall  I  tell  you  about  that  ?  " 

44 Oh,  do,  please,"  said  Peggy.  "Is  it  anywhere  near 
Leith  Hill  ?  I  went  there  once  with  George." 

M  Yes,  it  is  quite  near.  I  have  found  a  piece  of  land  on 
the  edge  of  a  pine  wood,  with  a  lovely  view."  And  Guy 
told  her  all  about  a  roomy  bachelor  cottage  he  had 
designed  for  himself,  with  a  large  hall,  and  a  room  for 
books,  and  a  room  for  meals,  and  half  a  dozen  bedrooms 
for  himself  and  his  friends,  and  a  garden  which  would  be 
beautiful  from  the  first,  but  never  finished  in  the  making. 

"  It  all  sounds  too  lovely  for  words,"  said  Peggy,  when 
he  had  finished.  "  I  couldn't  help  thinking  about  the 
other  place  that  everything  had  been  done  for  you.  It  was 
so  perfect  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  do.  But  this—- 
oh, you  will  enjoy  it !  And  tell  me,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  in  your  beautiful  little  house  ?  " 

44  Do  in  it  ?    Why,  live  in  it." 

"Yes,  but  you  can't  do  nothing  all  day  long.** 

*'  I  shall  find  lots  to  amuse  myself  with.  There  will  be 
the  garden  for  one  thing,  and  indoors  I  shall  have  books 
and  music,  and  I  paint  a  bit,  you  know.  Then  there  will 

K  a 


13*  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

always  be  somebody  staying  with  me,  or  nearly  always. 
And  if  I  get  bored,  which  may  very  well  happen  when  it 
rains,  and  I  can't  get  anybody  to  keep  me  company — well, 
I  can  go  away  for  a  bit." 

"  But,  you  know,  I  don't  think  a  life  like  that  can  be 
quite  good  for  you,"  said  Peggy  sagely.  "  It  means  doing 
nothing  but  amuse  yourself  all  day  and  every  day.  I  think 
everybody  ought  to  do  something,  even  if  they  are  well  off." 

"I  was  asked  to  stand  for  Parliament  once,"  said  Guy 
with  a  laugh,  "  but  that  wouldn't  have  suited  me  at  all.  I 
haven't  got  ambitions  like  George.  I  daresay  I  should  be 
all  the  better  if  I  had." 

"We  can't  all  do  the  same  things,"  replied  Peggy. 
"And  we  can't  all  get  to  the  top  of  the  tree.  The 
branches  wouldn't  hold  us.  But  I  can't  help  feeling  there 
is  something  out  of  the  many  things  you  know  about  that 
you  ought  to  be  able  to  do  seriously." 

"  Well,  perhaps  there  is,"  said  Guy.  "  If  I  had  had  to 
work  for  my  living  I  think  I  should  have  chosen  to  be  a 
painter." 

"  Well,  there  !  "  said  Peggy  triumphantly.  "  Then  why 
don't  you  go  in  for  that,  and  become  a  great  painter  ? 
You  have  more  chances  than  other  people." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  could  be  a  great  painter.  I  don't  think  I 
could." 

"  But  you  could  try  to  be,  and  I'm  sure  you  would  be 
much  happier  if  you  had  an  object  in  life." 

"  I'm  not  particularly  unhappy  now.  No,  Miss  Peggy, 
I'm  one  of  the  few  people — I  believe  there  are  only  a  few 
of  them — who  thoroughly  enjoy  doing  nothing  in  par- 
ticular. I  daresay  I  should  enjoy  doing  something  in 
particular  equally,  but  it  is  rather  late  in  the  day  to  try 
now." 

Thereupon  Peggy  began  to  plead  that  it  was  not  at  all 


MR.  RICHARDS  IS  DISPLEASED.         133 

too  late,  and  showed  such  earnestness  in  the  arguments  she 
produced,  arguments  which  Guy  lightly  combated,  and 
such  wisdom  in  urging  them,  that  she  appeared  in  quite 
a  new  aspect  and,  if  possible,  a  more  captivating  one 
than  ever,  and  they  got  on  so  well  together  that  they  never 
once  looked  back  towards  George  and  the  old  gentleman, 
and  never  realised,  until  they  came  out  upon  the  Heath 
and  stood  under  the  great  firs  to  look  at  the  distant  view, 
that  they  had  left  their  companions  half  a  mile  behind. 

After  resting  for  a  while  they  parted  from  the  old 
gentleman  and  his  following  and  walked  back  another 
way  through  the  fields  to  Highgate. 

"  Excuse  me  for  leaving  you  to  yourselves,"  said  George, 
with  no  attempt  at  irony,  when  they  were  alone  again, 
"but  that  old  boy  was  rather  interesting.  He  was  in 
Parliament  for  twenty  years,  and  has  a  lot  to  talk  about." 

When  they  reached  the  cottage  Guy  held  open  the  gate 
for  Peggy  to  go  through.  She  went  up  the  garden  path 
and  then  turned  suddenly. 

"  Oh,  George,  there's  father !  "  she  exclaimed,  laying  a 
hand  on  his  arm  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  sudden 
fright.  Through  the  open  window  of  the  room  looking 
towards  the  front  Mrs.  Greenfield  could  be  seen  sitting  in 
conversation  with  a  man  who  turned  a  dark  face  on  them. 

"  Do  go  in  first,  George,"  Peggy  whispered.  She  had 
forgotten  all  about  Guy  for  the  moment,  but  George 
turned  towards  him  in  some  embarrassment. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  be  going,"  Guy  said.  "  I  am  dining 
out  to-night,  and  I  must  go  and  get  hold  of  my  bag." 

M  Well,  we've  got  to  get  this  business  over,"  said  George, 
smiling  down  at  Peggy,  who  still  held  his  arm.  "So 
good-bye,  Guy.  I'm  very  glad  you  came  up  after  all." 

"  And  I'm  very  glad  Mrs.  Greenfield  is  better,"  said  Guy. 
"Good-bye,  Miss  Peggy."  He  held  her  band  a  little 


134  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

longer  than  was  absolutely  accessary,  and  Peggy  felt  that 
she  was  being  somehow  assisted  in  the  crisis  that  lay 
before  her.  The  little  gate  clicked  behind  Guy,  and 
George  and  Peggy  went  into  the  house. 

There  was  a  very  black  look  on  Mr.  Richards's  face 
when  they  went  into  the  room  where  he  was  sitting  with 
Mrs.  Greenfield,  but  it  was  turned  more  towards  George 
than  Peggy.  He  kissed  Peggy,  however,  and  shook  hands 
with  George  without  giving  vent  to  his  obvious  displeasure. 

"  You  can  go  away  now,  Peggy,"  he  said.  "  I  will  speak 
to  you  later." 

When  Peggy  had  left  the  room  he  turned  to  George. 

"  What  is  that  young  man  doing  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

Hostility,  fully  aroused,  looked  out  of  George's  eyes. 

"What  right  have  you  to  ask  that  question,  Mr. 
Richards  ?  "  he  said,  facing  him  squarely. 

Mr.  Richards  looked  nonplussed  for  the  moment.  Then 
he  made  a  gesture  as  if  brushing  away  an  obstacle. 

44 1  told  you  what  it  would  be  six  years  ago,"  he  said. 
"You  would  make  friends  with  the  idlers.  This  young 
man  has  never  done  a  stroke  of  honest  work  in  his  life. 
Everybody  knows  that.  Why  do  you  want  to  make 
friends  with  a  man  like  that?" 

44 Again  I  ask,"  said  George,  "by  what  right  do  you 
criticise  me  and  my  friends?  What  in  the  world  has  it 
got  to  do  with  you  whom  I  make  friends  with  ?  " 

4*  I  am  an  old  friend  of  your  mother's,  and,  I  hope,  a  true 
friend.  And  I  have  entrusted  my  daughter  to  her  care." 

44  That  doesn't  give  you  the  right  to  dictate  to  us  whom 
we  shall  ask  to  this  house." 

"  It  gives  me  the  right  to  take  my  daughter  away  if  I 
object  to  the  people  who  come  here." 

44  Are  we  to  take  that  as  a  threat  ?  **  inquired  George, 
with  a  curl  of  the  lip. 


MR.  RICHARDS   IS  DISPLEASED.         135 

"You  can  take  it  as  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Richards, 
roughly.  "  I'm  not  going  to  have  this  man  coming  here 
as  long  as  my  girl  remains  in  the  house.  You  can  choose 
between  them." 

"  George  dear,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Greenfield,  who  had  been 
standing  by  in  great  distress,  "  I  have  told  Mr.  Richards 
exactly  how  it  was  that  Sir  Guy  Bertram  came,  that  you 
had  already  consented  not  to  ask  him  again,  and  had  tried 
to  put  him  off  to-day." 

"Then  if  you  have  been  told  that,  sir,"  said  George, 
hotly,  "  why  do  you  take  this  bullying  tone  with  me  about 
it  ?  Do  you  want  to  drive  me  into  saying  that  I  refuse  to 
make  any  such  compact  with  you,  when  you  have  heard 
that  I  have  already  consented  to  what  you  wish  because 
my  mother  asked  me  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  make  certain  that  that  man  doesn't  come 
here  again,"  said  Mr.  Richards,  doggedly. 

"Then  you  are  going  the  wrong  way  to  get  what 
you  want,"  said  George.  **I  am  not  a  boy  to  be 
ordered  to  do  this  or  that  by  a  man  whose  authority  I 
entirely  disclaim.  There  is  nobody  in  the  world,  Mr. 
Richards,  who  takes  the  tone  with  me  that  you  do,  and 
there  are  very  few  people  from  whom  I  should  take  such  a 
tone  less  kindly." 

"  He  says  he  will  let  Peggy  stay  with  me,  George,"  said 
Mrs.  Greenfield, "  if  you  will  promise  that  Sir  Guy  Bertram 
does  not  come  here." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  George,  "  if  Mr.  Richards  wants 
such  a  promise  out  of  me  let  him  recognise  that  he  is 
asking  a  good  deal,  and  let  him  ask  it  as  one  man  of 
another,  and  not  lay  his  commands  upon  me  in  the 
peremptory  manner  he  sees  fit  to  employ." 

"Look  here,  George,"  said  Mr.  Richards,  roughly,  but 
not  unkindly, "  you  seem  to  want  to  make  an  enemy  of  me.** 


136  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  George.  "  For  Peggy's  sake  and  my 
mother's  sake,  and  for  my  own  sake  too  as  far  as  their 
happiness  is  concerned,  I  should  wish  to  keep  on  friendly 
terms  with  you  as  far  as  possible.  But  it  isn't  possible  as 
long  as  you  take  up  that  hectoring  tone  with  me." 

"  Well,  let  me  finish.  You've  got  so  far  above  us  with 
all  your  high  friends  that  you  take  amiss  what  is  only 
meant  for  plainness.  I  know  what  I  mean,  and  I'm  accus- 
tomed to  say  it  without  picking  and  choosing  my  words. 
As  between  man  and  man,  I've  nothing  but  respect  for  you. 
You  have  got  on  in  the  world  as  far  as  a  young  man  could 
at  your  age,  and  I  hope  by-and-bye  you  will  reap  the 
reward  of  all  your  hard  work  and  sticking  to  it.  If  I 
speak  to  you  in  a  way  you  don't  like  you  must  put  it  down 
to  an  elderly  man's  way  with  a  young  man  he's  known 
from  a  baby.  It's  nothing  more  than  that." 

George  was  somewhat  mollified  by  this  speech,  but  not 
entirely. 

"  I  accept  what  you  say,  of  course,"  he  answered,  "  but, 
at  the  same  time,  what  I  object  to  in  your  attitude  towards 
me  is  something  more  than  the  manner  of  your  speech,  and 
I  can't  pretend  that  I  shall  ever  receive  it  with  anything 
but  resistance.  However,  the  point  now  is  that  you  want 
a  promise  from  me  which  I  have  already  given  to  my 
mother.  I  have  no  objection  to  repeating  it  to  you  if  it  is 
to  keep  Peggy  with  us.  I  won't  ask  Bertram  here  again. 
The  fact  that  he  came  to-day  was  an  accident.  I  had 
already  written  to  put  him  off." 

Mr.  Richards  had  not  taken  this  speech  without  a 
darkening  of  face.  It  is  probable  that  he  had  never  in  his 
life  gone  nearer  to  any  apology,  and  he  may  have  expected 
his  overtures  to  be  accepted  without  any  reservation.  He 
broke  in  now. 

"  That  sort  of  accident  mustn't  happen  again,  then.   I  want 


MR.  RICHARDS  IS  DISPLEASED.         137 

a  definite  promise  that  under  no  circumstances  shall  that 
young  man  come  to  this  house  while  my  daughter  is  in  it." 

George  looked  at  him  somewhat  curiously. 

"  Why  is  it  always  '  that  young  man '  ? "  he  asked. 
"  What  do  you  know  of  Guy  Bertram  that  you  have  taken 
such  a  violent  prejudice  against  him?  " 

"  I  haven't  taken  a  prejudice  against  him.  I  don't  care 
anything  about  him  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  Well,  I  do.  He's  my  friend,  and  I  don't  choose  my 
friends  from  amongst  the  wasters,  as  you  seem  to  imagine. 
He's  a  man  anybody  might  be  pleased  to  know.  Why  do 
you  make  such  a  point  of  his  never  meeting  Peggy  ?  " 

"  That's  my  business.  You're  sharp  enough  in  sticking 
to  what  you  call  your  rights.  I'll  stick  to  mine.  If  he 
comes  here  again  Peggy  leaves  this  house  with  no  more 
said  about  it.  And  she  leaves  it  for  good." 

"  How  would  you  have  prevented  his  coming  to-day  if 
you  had  been  in  my  place  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  met  him  at  the  door  and  told  him  he 
wasn't  wanted." 

"  Oh,  would  you  ?  Well,  I'm  afraid  such  a  course  isn't 
open  to  me,  nor,  I  should  think,  to  anybody  with  the 
feelings  of  a  gentleman.  If  that  is  the  kind  of  thing  you 
want  I'm  afraid  you  will  have  to  take  Peggy  away,  for  you 
won't  get  a  promise  of  such  behaviour  from  me." 

"  Well,  we've  talked  long  enough,"  said  Mr.  Richards, 
impatiently.  '*  I  don't  care  how  you  do  it.  You  can  find 
some  way  that'll  suit  you,  or  you  can  leave  it  alone.  I'll 
give  you  three  days  to  decide.  I  don't  want  to  send  Peggy 
away  from  your  mother,  but  I  shall  do  so  unless  I  get  your 
definite  written  promise  by  Wednesday  morning.  You  have 
got  the  matter  in  your  own  hands.  And  now,  Mr.  George 
Greenfield,  as  I'm  not  in  my  own  house,  may  I  ask  you  to 
be  good  enough  to  send  my  daughter  to  me  ?  ** 


138  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  Always  a  pleasure  to  do  anything  for  you,  Mr.  Richards," 
said  George. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  as  George  went  out 
of  the  room.  Mutual  antagonism  showed  itself  plainly, 
and  it  might  have  been  prophesied  that  on  any  future 
occasion  on  which  they  should  chance  to  find  themselves 
opposed  there  would  be  no  quarter  given  by  either.  It 
might  also  have  been  safely  said  that  the  older  man  would 
not  be  likely  again  to  address  however  slight  an  appeal  for 
consideration  to  the  younger. 

"  Now,  my  girl,"  said  Mr.  Richards,  when  Peggy  stood 
in  his  presence,  "we  can't  have  goings  on  like  this,  you 
know.  You  are  not  old  enough  by  a  good  many  years  yet 
to  decide  what  you  are  to  do  and  what  you  are  not  to  do. 
If  you  weren't  happy  at  school,  why  didn't  you  write  and 
ask  if  you  could  come  back,  instead  of  taking  matters  into 
your  own  hands,  eh  ?  " 

"  Because  I  was  determined  to  come  home,  and  I  thought 
you  might  not  let  me  if  I  asked,"  answered  Peggy. 

"  Oh,  that  was  it,  was  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Richards.  "  Well, 
you  wouldn't  be  much  better  off  if  I  determined  to  send 
you  back,  would  you  ? " 

Peggy  opposed  a  rebellious  face  to  this  query,  but  made 
no  answer. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  send  you  back,"  continued  her  father. 
"  At  least,  I  hope  I  sha'n*t  have  to.  Schooling  in  a  place  like 
Paris  is  expensive,  and  if  you  are  determined  not  to  learn 
I've  got  better  use  for  my  money  than  to  spend  it  in  trying 
to  make  you.  The  schooling  is  your  loss,  not  mine,  and  you 
have  had  enough  for  all  practical  purposes.  So  you  see 
you  have  not  got  such  an  unreasonable  father,  have  you  ?  ** 

"  No,"  said  Peggy  somewhat  doubtfully. 

"  How  would  you  like  to  come  and  live  with  me  up 
north  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Richards. 


MR.  RICHARDS  IS  DISPLEASED.         139 

Peggy  cast  a  frightened  look  at  him. 

"  Oh,  father,  you  don't  want  me  to,  do  you  ?  **  she 
said. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  do  yet,"  said  Mr.  Richards  frankly. 
"What  I  may  want  later  on  is  another  matter.  Your 
proper  home  would  be  with  your  father,  I  suppose,  if  he 
has  got  one  to  offer  you  ?  " 

"Then  why  haven't  I  always  had  it,  father?  I  have 
never  once  been  inside  your  house.  They  do  want  me  here 
always,  and  at  any  time.  This  has  always  been  my  home, 
and  I  love  it  and  want  to  stay  here." 

"I  intend  that  you  shall  stay  here  for  a  time,  that  is, 
if  a  certain  stipulation  that  I  have  asked  for  from  Mr. 
George  is  made — not  unless." 

"  What  stipulation  ?  " 

Mr.  Richards  was  silent  for  a  space. 

"  I  hadn't  intended  to  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  But  I  don't 
know  why  I  shouldn't.  George  has  got  to  promise  me  that 
that  young  gentleman  who  has  been  here  to-day  shall  not 
come  here  again." 

Peggy  blushed  a  fiery  red,  none  the  paler  because  her 
father's  eye  was  on  her. 

"  Why  shouldn't  Sir  Guy  Bertram  come  here,  father  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  He  is  George's  friend." 

"  And  yours  too,  young  woman,  eh  ?  I  don't  intend 
that  that  shall  be,  and  if  you  have  let  that  young  man 
creep  inside  your  heart  you  had  better  get  him  out  again 
as  quickly  as  may  be." 

Poor  Peggy,  wounded  alike  in  her  pride  and  her  modesty 
by  this  rude  tearing  down  of  a  veil  behind  which  she  had 
hardly  dared  to  peep  herself,  burst  into  tears. 

"  How  can  you  say  such  things,  father  ?  "  she  cried.  "  As 

if  I  had  ever 1  Oh,  I  hope  I  shall  never  see  Sir  Guy 

Bertram  again.** 


140  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  I'll  take  good  care  that  you  don't,"  said  Mr.  Richards 
as  he  left  the  room. 

Although  he  had  succeeded  in  making  each  member  of 
the  little  household  at  Highgate  ill  at  ease,  and  two  of 
them  at  least  thoroughly  angry,  Mr.  Richards,  in  pursuit 
of  his  purpose,  proceeded  to  make  a  further  effort  yet. 

He  was  anxious  not  to  be  obliged  to  take  Peggy  away 
from  Highgate,  but  doubted  whether  George  would  give 
him  the  promise  he  had  stipulated  for.  Being  therefore  a 
man  of  action,  possessing  very  little  delicacy  of  feeling,  and 
no  innate  objection  to  making  himself  disagreeable  to  any- 
body whatever,  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  best  way  to 
settle  up  the  matter  once  for  all  and  to  get  it  off  his  mind 
was  to  go  and  see  the  person  whom  he  wished  to  exclude 
from  Peggy's  society  himself.  Having  thus  decided,  Mr. 
Richards  let  no  grass  grow  under  his  feet,  and  Guy  had  not 
been  in  his  rooms  an  hour  after  returning  from  Highgate 
when  he  was  intensely  astonished  to  receive  a  visit  from 
the  man  whose  face  he  had  seen  through  the  window  of  the 
cottage,  who  apparently  claimed  to  control  the  goings  and 
comings  of  his  wayward  little  friend  Peggy. 

"  You  don't  know  anything  about  me,"  said  Mr.  Richards, 
when  he  had  been  accommodated  with  a  chair,  "  and  you 
may  take  somewhat  amiss  what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you. 
So  I  will  make  it  as  short  and  plain  as  possible.  My  young 
daughter  has  had  the  honour  of  making  your  acquaintance. 
I  don't  wish  that  acquaintance  to  go  any  further." 

"  Well,  really !  "  exclaimed  Guy,  in  utter  astonishment, 
"that's  a  funny  thing  to  come  and  say  to  an  entire 
stranger." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  replied  Mr.  Richards,  in  no  wise  abashed. 
"  But  I  believe  in  saying  a  thing  straight  out  if  I've  got  to 
say  it  at  all.  I've  no  objection  to  your  making  friends  with 
George  Greenfield  or  his  mother  if  you  wamt  to,  or,  if  I 


MR.  RICHARDS  IS   DISPLEASED.         141 

have,  I  can't  very  well  say  so.  But  I  have  got  authority 
over  my  own  daughter,  and  if  you  can't  see  your  way  to 
keeping  clear  of  Mrs.  Greenfield's  house  while  she  is  in  it  I 
shall  have  to  take  her  away,  which  I  don't  want,  and  she 
doesn't  want ;  in  fact,  nobody  wants." 

"  Have  you  made  this  suggestion — that  I  shall  keep  clear 
of  Mrs.  Greenfield's  house,  as  you  put  it — to  her  and  her  son  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have." 

M  I  see.  And  as  they  probably  feel  some  natural  delicacy 
in  communicating  your  wishes  to  me,  you  have  decided  to 
do  it  yourself." 

"  If  you  want  a  thing  done,  do  it  yourself.  That's  my 
principle." 

"  No  matter  how  damned  impudent  it  is  !     I  see.** 

"You  don't  pick  your  language,  neither  you  nor  your 
friend  George  Greenfield,"  said  Mr.  Richards,  with  a 
lowering  look  at  him. 

"  This  is  hardly  an  occasion  for  picking  language.  You 
have  said  what  you  had  to  say  in  the  way  that  suited 
you  best,  and  a  very  unpleasant  way  it  is.  You  must 
kindly  allow  me  to  do  the  same." 

"  I'm  not  of    i  spoken  to  in  that  way.** 

"  No,  nor  I,"  rejoined  Guy,  who  was  getting  more  and 
more  angry.  "And  I'll  take  very  good  care  I  never  am 
again  when  once  this  interview  is  over.  What  is  it  you 
object  to  in  me,  I  should  like  to  know,  that  you  should 
come  here  and  tell  me  I'm  not  fit  to  be  in  the  same  house 
as  your  daughter — a  girl  I've  spoken  to  three  times  in  my 
life,  and  with  as  much  respect  as  I  should  use  to  my  own 
mother  if  she  were  alive  ?  " 

"  I  don't  object  to  anything  in  you  particularly,"  said 
Mr.  Richards,  "  except  that  you  are  in  a  different  class  of 
life  from  me  and  my  daghter,  and  I  don't  choose  that  she 
shall  have  her  head  turned." 


THE   HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

**  Very  well,  then,  you  can  have  the  promise  you  want 
I  won't  go  near  Mrs.  Greenfield's  house  while  your  daughter 
is  there.  And  now  you'd  better  clear  out  of  my  room, 
please,  or  I  shall  lose  my  temper." 

"You  seem  to  have  done  that  already,"  said  Mr. 
Richards,  rising.  "I  suppose  I  can  rely  on  you  keeping 
your  promise  ?  " 

"You  can  suppose  what  you  like,"  answered  the 
infuriated  Guy,  "  as  long  as  you  get  out  of  my  room." 

Mr.  Richards  took  his  departure,  leaving  Guy  to  walk  up 
and  down  in  no  amiable  mood  until  it  was  time  to  dress 
for  dinner,  when  his  anger  began  to  cool  down,  and  he 
gradually  realised  that  it  was  rather  a  serious  thing  for  him 
to  have  cut  himself  off  so  entirely  from  all  possibility  of 
enjoying  Peggy's  society  for  the  future.  This  feeling  grew 
upon  him  during  the  evening  until,  by  the  time  he  went  to 
bed,  he  had  come  to  the  point  of  wishing  that  he  had 
received  Mr.  Richards,  who,  insupportable  man  as  he 
was,  was  still  Peggy's  father,  in  a  rather  more  conciliatory 
spirit. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

MERRILEES  AGAIN. 

CALTHORP  and  Messrs.  Walters  and  Venable,  of  Lom- 
bard Street,  lost  no  time  in  settling  up  the  details  of  Lord 
Caradoc's  tenancy  of  Merrilees.  There  was  no  discussion 
about  the  rent  to  be  paid.  Calthorp  had,  in  fact,  on  his  own 
responsibility,  added  on  another  two  hundred  a  year  to  the 
terms  he  had  been  prepared  to  offer,  and  Lord  Caradoc's 
lawyers  had  closed  at  once,  having  received  instructions  to 
agree  to  whatever  sum  was  asked,  provided  there  should  be 
no  delay  in  taking  possession.  The  Ffoulkes  Library  itself 
was  an  irresistible  attraction.  Calthorp  might  have  doubled 
the  rent  without  endangering  the  negotiations. 

A  few  days  after  Mr.  Richards's  invasion  of  his  privacy 
Guy  received  a  letter  from  Cicely  Caradoc  to  the  effect  that 
her  father  had  asked  her  to  say  that  all  preliminaries  had 
been  settled,  and  that  he  wished  to  transfer  his  establish- 
ment to  Merrilees  at  the  end  of  the  following  week  ;  also 
that  Lord  Caradoc  would  be  pleased  if  Guy  would  lunch 
with  them  on  the  following  day,  and,  if  he  could  do  so, 
would  he  kindly  come  at  half- past  one,  so  that  Mrs.  Herbert 
could  have  half  an  hour's  talk  with  him  before  luncheon 
about  certain  details. 

"  I  don't  know  who  Mrs.  Herbert  may  be,"  said  Guy, 
"  or  why  she  can't  talk  after  lunch  as  well  as  before,  but 
Sir  Guy  Bertram  accepts  with  pleasure  Miss  Caradoc's  kind 
invitation." 

The  person  to  whom   he  addressed   these  words   was 


144  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

Mr.  Calthorp,  who,  arrayed  in  clothes  which  King  Solomon 
might  have  envied  if  he  had  lived  in  the  nineteenth 
century  and  curbed  his  Oriental  tastes,  was  sitting  solemnly 
in  Guy's  room,  his  eyeglass  screwed  firmly  into  his 
impassive  face. 

"  I  suggest,"  said  Calthorp,  "  the  propriety  of  your  falling 
in  love  with  Miss  Caradoc.  Her  father's  financial  position 
is  entirely  sound,  and  the  young  lady  herself  struck  me  as 
possessing  eminent  attractions." 

"  She's  an  extraordinarily  pretty  child,"  said  Guy.  "  But 
I'm  not  falling  in  love  at  the  present  moment." 

"  Or  possibly  you  are  with  somebody  else,"  returned  the 
astute  Calthorp,  "  and  are  proof  in  this  particular  quarter. 
Well,  I  have  done  my  duty  as  your  legal  adviser  in  recom- 
mending your  attention  to  an  undoubted  heiress,  in  whom 
it  struck  me  that  you  had  aroused  some  interest  the  other 
day." 

"  There  is  nobody  in  whom  I  don't  arouse  interest  just  at 
present,"  said  Guy.  "  It  is  in  process  of  calming  down  a  bit, 
I'm  happy  to  say.  But  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  submit  to 
being  stared  at  for  some  time  longer,  unless  the  mystery  is 
cleared  up,  when  I  shall  be  once  more  left  to  myself.  Is 
there  anything  fresh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is.  On  my  way  from  the  toils  of  the  law  to 
the  haunts  of  pleasure  I  dropped  in  to  give  you  two  small 
pieces  of  information." 

"  You  haven't  found  the  jewels  ?  "  asked  Guy  eagerly. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  we  have  found  nothing.  But  we  have 
seen  Martin  in  London." 

"  Have  you  got  hold  of  him  ?  " 

"  Unfortunately  not.  When  I  say  we  have  seen  him,  I 
mean  nothing  more  than  that  he  has  been  seen.  A  gentle- 
man called  John  Friend,  who  lately  filled  the  position  of 
second  footman  at  Merrilees,  paid  us  a  visit  this  morning 


MERRILEES  AGAIN.  145 

and  informed  us  that  he  had  seen  Mr.  Martin  driving 
through  the  city  in  a  hansom,  as  cool  as  you  please.*' 

*'  Why  on  earth  didn't  he  stop  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  was  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  and  he  hadn't 
got  his  lasso  with  him." 

"  Didn't  he  get  down  ?  " 

"  He  did,  as  quickly  as  possible.  In  fact,  he  was  quite 
keen.  There  is  a  small  matter  of  five  hundred  pounds  to 
be  earned  by  putting  salt  on  Martin's  tail,  and  Mr.  Friend 
explained  that,  to  use  his  own  words,  he  could  do  with  it. 
But  by  the  time  he  had  alighted  and  found  another  cab  he 
had  lost  sight  of  his  quarry,  and  in  his  excitement  he  had 
omitted  to  take  the  number  of  Martin's  hansom." 

"  What  a  fool  the  fellow  must  be  !  " 

"  He  admitted  as  much  himself  with  a  considerable  amount 
of  remorse." 

"  He  might  have  shouted  directly  he  saw  him,  Every- 
body would  have  been  on  the  go  in  an  instant,  and  we 
should  have  caught  the  fellow." 

"  He  might  have  done  that,  or  several  other  things,  but 
unfortunately  he  didn't.  And  the  most  foolish  thing  he  did 
was  to  delay  coming  to  us  with  his  information  until  this 
morning.  It  was  on  Monday  that  he  saw  Martin,  four  days 
ago.  If  he  had  come  to  us  at  once  we  might  have  been  able 
to  get  on  to  his  tra  k.  The  cab  was  going  west,  and  there 
was  a  Gladstone  bag  on  the  top.  I  should  have  routed  up 
Scotland  Yard  at  once  and  got  them  to  make  inquiries 
at  all  the  terminus  stations." 

"  What  an  idiot  the  fellow  must  be  1  Is  he  quite  sure  it 
was  Martin  ? " 

"  He  doesn't  admit  a  doubt  on  the  subject.  He  says  that 
Martin  had  shaved  off  his  beard,  but  he  should  have  known 
him  anywhere.  He  says,  too,  that  Martin  looked  up  and 
recognised  him.** 

H.M.  L 


146  THE  HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

"  He's  got  a  pretty  good  nerve  to  ride  about  London  in 
broad  daylight  just  now." 

'*  I  don't  deny  the  gentleman's  nerve,  or  even  impudence  ; 
but  if  he  has  become  so  careless  over  his  own  safety  as 
soon  as  this,  it  ought  not  to  be  very  long  before  we  lay 
our  hands  on  him." 

"  Then  if  he  has  smuggled  the  body  out  of  England  he  has 
done  what  he  wanted  to  do  and  come  back  again." 

"  I  don't  think  he  has  smuggled  the  body  out  of  England. 
That  was  only  an  idea  that  was  just  worth  following  up. 
We  must  have  hit  upon  a  trail  of  some  sort  by  this  time  if 
he  had  tried  to  do  it" 

**  What  was  the  other  piece  of  news  you  spoke  about  ?  '* 

'*  I'm  afraid  it  doesn't  help  us  to  anything.  But  it  is 
curious.  We  have  found  out  where  Lady  Bertram  died. 
It  was  at  Foligno,  a  town  about  ten  miles  from  Assisi,  on 
the  way  to  Rome.  And  the  date  was  that  given  in  the 
notice  in  the  Times.  The  circumstances  are  remembered 
in  the  place.  Sir  Roderick's  party  was  travelling  by  road, 
and  they  -left  Assisi  on  March  i3th.  Lady  Bertram  was 
unexpectedly  confined  on  the  following  day.  She  was  taken 
to  an  inn  at  Foligno,  and  died  there  in  childbirth." 

"  Have  they  found  her  grave  there  ?  " 

"  No,  she  was  not  buried  at  Foligno.  Her  body  was 
coffined  and  taken  away  two  days  afterwards.  They  have 
not  yet  succeeded  in  tracing  the  route  they  took,  but  no 
doubt  they  will." 

"  It  looks  as  if  he  had  meant  to  take  her  bodv  back  to 
England." 

"  Yes,  but  we  know  he  didn't,  at  least,  not  to  Merrilees. 
You  remember  Mrs.  Cheetham  describing  how  he  came 
home  alone  with  Martin  and  walked  into  the  house  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  And  Martin  spoke  afterwards  of 
Lady  Bertram's  being  buried  in  Italy.** 


MERRILEES  AGAIN.  147 

"Yes,  at  Assisi." 

"Quite  so.  I  take  your  point.  But  it  doesn't  much 
matter  whether  his  lie  only  covered  one  town  or  the  whole 
of  the  country.  However,  we  shall  follow  up  the  trail. 
There  is  one  other  discrepancy  to  be  noticed.  The  Times 
notice  implies,  if  it  does  not  actually  state,  that  the  child 
died  on  the  same  day  as  the  mother.  But  it  didn't.  It 
was  alive,  and  apparently  very  lustily  so,  when  they  left 
Foligno,  two  days  after  Lady  Bertram's  death." 

"  What  do  you  make  of  that  ? w 

**  Nothing  much.  The  Times  notice  was  not  inserted 
until  about  a  fortnight  later,  and  the  child  probably  died 
somewhere  on  the  route." 

"  Or  didn't  die  at  all.  We  shall  be  having  a  claimant 
turning  up  next  who  will  turn  me  out  of  what  Martin  has 
in  his  kindness  left  for  me  to  enjoy." 

"  Well,  I  rather  think  not.  That  sort  of  thing  doesn't 
happen  except  in  books." 

"  No.  And  a  man  shutting  himself  up  in  his  house  for 
twenty-five  years,  and  turning  a  large  fortune  into  precious 
stones,  and  his  body  mysteriously  disappearing  after  his 
death — that  sort  of  thing  don't  happen  except  in  books ; 
or  so  you  would  be  inclined  to  say." 

"  I  take  your  point,"  said  Calthorp  again.  "  However,  I 
don't  think  you  need  be  alarmed  in  this  instance.  The 
child  died  all  right,  and  we  shall  find  out  where  very  soon, 
I  hope.  And  now,  my  young  friend  and  most  respected 
client,  I  must  be  going." 

"  Oh,  don't  go  yet.     Come  and  dine  with  me  somewhere." 

**  Thank  you.  I'm  taking  a  little  light  refreshment  to- 
night with  George  Greenfield.  We  shall  discuss  this 
matter  in  all  its  bearings,  and  the  keen  brain  of  that  rising 
barrister  will  perhaps  be  able  to  throw  some  light  on 
places  at  present  in  darkness.  George  Greenfield  takes 

L  a 


148  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

an  intelligent  interest  in  all  that  concerns  Sir  Roderick 
Bertram  and  Mr.  Martin." 

And  without  further  words  Mr.  Calthorp  took  his  de- 
parture. 

The  next  morning  Guy  betook  himself  to  Lord  Caradoc's 
house  in  Berkeley  Square  and  asked  for  Miss  Caradoc.  He 
was  shown  into  a  pleasant  morning  room  where  Cicely  was 
sitting  with  an  elderly  lady  who  was  busy  with  account 
books  at  a  table  in  the  window. 

Mrs.  Herbert  had  occupied  an  important  position  in  Lord 
Caradoc's  household  ever  since  the  death  of  his  wife.  She 
had  come,  in  the  first  instance,  to  look  after  Cicely,  being 
an  offset  of  the  Conder  stock,  from  whom  Lord  Caradoc's 
wife  had  also  sprung,  but  had  speedily  put  herself  at  the 
head  of  affairs  at  Treglith  Rectory,  and  had  so  ably  over- 
looked Treglith  parish  that  the  rector  had  had  nothing  to  do 
but  conduct  two  services  a  week  in  the  church.  When  the 
rectory  was  exchanged  for  the  large  house  in  Berkeley 
Square,  Mrs.  Herbert  had  shown  herself  in  no  way  at  a  loss, 
but  had  taken  up  the  reins  with  as  ready  a  capability  as 
before,  and  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  there  was  a  better 
conducted  household  within  the  five-mile  radius  than  that 
occupied  by  Lord  Caradoc,  his  daughter,  and  herself.  She 
was  a  pleasant- looking  woman  of  middle  age.  Benignity 
beamed  through  her  round  spectacles,  decision  ruled  the 
firm  lines  of  her  mouth,  and  order  and  neatness  were 
apparent  in  her  dress  and  all  about  her. 

Cicely  looked  rather  pale  and  languid,  as  if  the  heat  of  a, 
London  July  were  too  much  for  her,  but  there  was  nothing 
that  a  week  of  country  breezes  would  not  put  right,  and 
Guy  could  not  help  admiring  her  sweet  girlish  face  and 
slender  form  in  its  simple  white  frock  as  she  came  forward 
to  greet  him. 

Mrs.  Herbert,  introduced  by  Cicely,  plunged  at  once  into 


MERRILEES  AGAIN.  149 

her  subject,  which  had  to  do  with  servants,  both  outdoor 
and  indoor,  for  Mrs.  Herbert  apparently  had  the  oversight 
of  everything  and  was  as  ready  to  take  the  ordering  of 
stables  and  gardens  into  her  capable  hands  as  to  exercise 
supervision  over  larder  and  pantry. 

**  The  house  seems  to  be  so  well  stocked  with  everything 
we  can  possibly  want,"  she  said,  when  she  had  subjected 
Guy  to  a  searching  cross-examination,  "  that  it  will  be  very 
easy  to  move  into.  I  have  the  inventory  here.  You  are 
taking  away  a  few  things,  I  think,  Sir  Guy  ?  " 

*'  I  made  up  a  list  of  everything  I  should  want  for  the 
house  I  am  going  to  build,"  said  Guy,  "  furniture,  pictures, 
and  everything.  That  has  been  agreed  to  by  Lord 
Caradoc's  lawyers.  But  the  house  is  so  full  that  what  I 
shall  take  away  will  hardly  be  missed." 

"That  is  very  satisfactory.  If  you  will  give  me  the 
housekeeper's  name  I  will  write  to  her  about  various  small 
details,  and  I  shall  send  most  of  the  servants  down  on 
Friday.  Lord  Caradoc  proposes  that  we  shall  go  on 
Saturday.  Then  I  think  that  is  all  I  need  trouble  you 
with,  Sir  Guy.  Thank  you.  Cicely  dear,  will  you  take 
care  of  Sir  Guy  till  lunch- time  ?  " 

Mrs.  Herbert  gathered  up  her  papers  and  her  basket  of 
keys  and  left  the  room. 

"  Do  you  mind  very  much  letting  your  house  to  us  ?  " 
asked  Cicely  when  they  were  alone  together. 

Guy  took  up  his  position  on  the  hearth-rug  and  smiled 
down  upon  her  protectingly.  "  My  dear  Miss  Caradoc,"  he 
said,  "  I  would  rather  let  it  to  you  than  anybody.  You 
won't  break  the  furniture,  you  know,  or  kick  the  paint, 
which  I  believe  are  the  chief  occupations  of  the  typical 
tenant." 

"  We  shall  like  living  there,  I  am  sure.  But  don't  you 
hate  letting  it  to  anybody  ?  " 


150  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  can't  live  there  myself.  And,  besides,  I 
am  getting  so  very  keen  on  my  own  building  arrangements." 
And  he  told  her,  as  he  had  already  told  Peggy,  of  his  plans 
for  his  Surrey  cottage. 

Cicely  received  them  with  less  enthusiasm  than  Peggy  had 
done.  "  It  sounds  very  nice,"  she  said.  "  But  it  will  not  be 
the  same  as  Merrilees." 

Guy  remembered  that  Peggy  had  thought  that  on  the 
whole  it  would  be  nicer,  and  a  shade  of  melancholy  crept 
over  his  face  at  the  recollection.  Cicely,  observing  it,  was 
confirmed  in  her  opinion  that  the  letting  of  Merrilees  was  a 
great  sorrow  to  him,  a  sorrow  which  he  was  bravely  hiding 
from  the  eyes  of  the  world. 

Lord  Caradoc,  dug  out  of  the  drift  of  books  and  papers 
in  the  midst  of  which  he  had  spent  his  morning,  and 
animated  by  thoughts  of  the  Ffoulkes  Library,  had  less 
difficulty  than  usual  in  bringing  his  thoughts  into  line  with 
present-day  surroundings,  and  asked  many  questions  about 
Merrilees,  its  house  and  its  gardens.  He  was  evidently 
pleased  and  a  little  excited  at  the  thought  of  living  there, 
and  he  had  entirely  forgotten,  even  if  he  had  ever  actually 
realised,  the  occurrences  which  had  made  Merrilees  of  late 
the  most  talked-of  house  in  the  three  kingdoms. 

"  How  would  it  suit  you,  Sir  Guy,"  he  asked  towards  the 
end  of  luncheon,  "  to  travel  down  with  us  on  Saturday  and 
put  us  in  the  way  of  things  ?  " 

Guy  was  somewhat  taken  back  by  the  suddenness  of 
this  invitation. 

M  It  would  be  very  nice  if  you  could,"  said  Cicely,  shyly. 

Guy  rapidly  reviewed  the  situation.  He  was  getting 
father  tired  of  the  London  season,  which  would  soon  be 
past  its  prime,  and  the  beauties  of  his  own  house  of 
Merrilees  had  impressed  him  more  than  he  was  inclined 
to  acknowledge,  now  that  he  had  made  over  his  rights  ip 


MERRILEES  AGAIN.  151 

it  for  the  present.  Perhaps  if  he  had  not  had  that  dis- 
agreeable interview  with  Mr.  Richards  a  few  days  before  he 
might  not  have  wished  to  leave  London  so  soon.  But  it 
was  no  use  thinking  of  that  now. 

"You  are  very  kind  indeed,"  he  said.  "I  am  afraid  I 
could  hardly  get  away  quite  so  soon  as  Saturday,  but 
towards  the  end  of  next  week,  if  your  invitation  is  still 
open,  I  should  very  much  like  to  come  down  for  a  few 
days." 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  a  week  later  Guy  Bertram  found 
himself  once  more  speeding  north  in  a  corridor  train,  this 
time  with  only  his  thoughts  to  keep  him  company. 

Those  thoughts  were  not  very  cheerful.  He  left  London 
in  a  thorough  downpour  of  rain,  which  bore  him  company 
all  through  the  Midlands.  The  low- lying  clouds  showed 
never  a  break  of  blue  sky,  and  the  dismal  swish  and  patter 
of  the  raindrops  on  the  window  of  his  compartment  turned 
his  thoughts  to  melancholy.  He  thought  about  Peggy. 
He  had  thought  a  great  deal  about  Peggy  during  the  last 
week.  Before  Mr.  Richards  had  paid  him  that  unwelcome 
visit  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  him  to  ask  himself 
whether  he  was  in  love  with  her.  He  had  seen  her  only 
three  times  in  his  life,  and  she  had  not  filled  any  great  part 
of  his  thoughts  between  whiles.  He  had  enjoyed  her  com- 
pany, as  he  had  often  enjoyed  the  company  of  a  pretty, 
lively  girl,  and,  looking  back  on  that  Sunday  afternoon,  he 
was  inclined  to  think  that  he  had  enjoyed  it  considerably 
more  than  he  had  been  aware  of  at  the  time.  If  matters 
had  taken  their  ordinary  course  he  might  have  tried  to 
make  opportunities  of  meeting  her  again,  but  he  would 
probably  not  have  desired  them  very  greatly,  and  if  she  had 
been  sent  away  again  for  a  considerable  time  his  apprecia- 
tion of  the  pleasures  of  life  would  have  been  in  no  way 
lessened,  and  she  might  have  dropped  out  of  his  mind 


15*  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

completely.  His  resentment  at  Mr.  Richards's  implications 
of  a  more  than  usual  interest  in  the  girl  on  his  part  had 
been  genuine,  and  had  arisen  not  because  he  had  felt  such 
an  interest  and  disliked  to  have  it  dragged  into  the  light 
of  day,  but  because,  so  far  as  he  knew  his  own  mind,  the 
unusual  interest  had  not  existed. 

But  to  deny  a  young  man  of  Guy's  nature  anything  that 
he  finds  in  any  degree  attractive  is  the  very  way  to  make 
him  desire  it  all  the  more,  as  Mr.  Richards  might  have 
known,  if  he  had  been  as  wise  as  he  thought  himself ;  and 
during  the  past  week  Guy  had  certainly  desired  very  much 
to  see  Peggy,  and  had  regretted  his  easily  given  promise 
that  he  would  not  endeavour  to  do  so,  regretted  rather  that 
the  promise  had  been  exacted,  for  it  was  difficult  to  see  how 
he  could  have  acted  otherwise  than  he  had  done  under  the 
spur  of  Mr.  Richards's  unwarrantable  behaviour. 

He  had  not  seen  George,  nor  heard  from  him,  and  he 
supposed,  as  was  indeed  the  case,  that  Mr.  Richards  had  not 
disclosed  the  fact  of  his  visit  to  St.  James's  Street.  He 
wondered  what  George  would  say  when  he  heard  of  it,  and 
he  wondered  still  more  what  Peggy  would  think  if  she  knew 
how  easily  he  had  allowed  himself  to  promise  that  he  would 
never  go  near  her  again,  so  easily  as  to  imply  that  he  didn't 
care  whether  he  went  near  her  or  not. 

With  a  nature  like  Guy's,  easily  elated  and  easily  de- 
pressed, one  uncomfortable  thought  is  apt  to  bring  another 
with  it.  He  had  been  a  spoilt  child  of  fortune,  and  by 
reason  of  his  clean  and  wholesome,  if  somewhat  dilettante, 
tastes,  he  had  not  suffered  those  mental  reversals  which 
pleasure-lovers  as  well  and  better  off  than  he  are  apt  to  be 
assailed  by.  Satisfaction  with  his  earthly  lot,  or  rather 
unthinking  acceptance  of  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  had  been 
his  normal  attitude,  and  seasons  of  depression  rare  and 
fleeting.  But  the  capacity  for  gloomy  outlooks  was  there, 


MERRILEES  AGAIN.  153 

and  gloom  now  descended  upon  him  as  he  thought  of 
Merrilees  and  the  pleasurable  anticipation  with  which  he 
had  journeyed  this  same  road  a  few  weeks  before.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  had  been  quite  honest  in  saying  that  the 
loss  of  a  large  fortune  had  not  troubled  him  much,  since  he 
had  been  enabled  to  take  in  hand  something  that  he  had 
»et  his  heart  upon.  He  had  allowed  the  thought  of  Merri- 
lees and  his  inheritance  to  be  obscured  by  an  agreeable 
plan  which  would  give  him  considerable  pleasure  in  the 
undertaking.  But  in  his  present  mood  he  was  inclined  to 
despise  himself  for  fixing  his  thoughts  on  a  toy  and  not 
taking  more  to  heart  the  loss  of  what  would  make  life  so 
much  more  amusing  than  anything  he  could  have  hoped 
for.  A  cottage  in  Surrey  and  rooms  in  London  were  all 
very  well  for  a  bachelor ;  but  supposing  he  wished  to  marry ! 
His  present  income,  even  with  Merrilees  constantly  let, 
would  not  give  him  the  position  in  the  world  that  he  de- 
sired. So  at  least  he  thought  in  his  present  downcast  mood, 
a  mood  black  enough  to  obscure  all  hope  of  eventually 
recovering  his  fortune. 

The  train  flashed  through  a  country  station.  Some  subtle 
connection  of  thought  turned  his  mind  towards  Sir  Roderick, 
whose  sudden  death  had  coloured  his  thoughts  during  his  last 
journey.  What  an  unaccountable  thing  the  disappearance 
of  his  body  had  been  !  Interest  in  the  startling  occurrence, 
burning  for  some  time  at  white  heat,  had  cooled  down  in 
the  public  mind,  and  after  the  first  week  or  so,  during  which 
its  connection  with  the  robbery  of  the  jewels  had  kept  it 
alive  in  his  mind,  it  had  taken  no  large  part  in  his  thoughts. 
He  had  never  known  his  cousin,  and  the  mysterious  dis- 
appearance of  his  dead  body  had  caused  him  no  personal 
distress  beyond  the  first  shock  of  the  news.  And  yet  he 
could  not  help  feeling  that  a  cloud  lay  over  the  place  to 
which  he  was  going,  a  cloud  of  mystery  and  melancholy, 


154  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

and  he  wondered  that  it  had  so  apparently  slight  an  effect 
on  the  people  who  had  now  made  the  island  house  their 
home.  Would  the  mystery  ever  be  cleared  up  ?  Would 
there  be  some  gruesome  discovery  in  the  house  itself  or  in 
the  gardens,  or  on  the  shores  of  the  lake,  which  would  turn 
that  lovely  place  into  a  scene  of  horror,  and  darken  the 
remembrance  of  it  to  the  young  girl  whose  home  it  had 
now  become  ?  Everything  had  been  done  that  could  have 
been  done,  but  they  were  no  nearer  to  a  solution  of  the 
mystery  than  before. 

Ah !  That  reminded  him !  He  had  received  a  letter 
from  Calthorp  just  before  leaving  his  rooms,  which  he  had 
put  with  others  into  his  pocket,  intending  to  read  them  in  the 
train.  He  opened  it  now. 

"  My  dear  Guy,"  it  ran,  "  we  have  made  further  dis- 
coveries in  Italy,  which  I  may  as  well  communicate  to  you, 
although  they  do  not,  unfortunately,  lead  to  anything. 

"  Lady  Bertram  was  not  buried  in  Italy  at  all.  Her  body 
was  taken  down  to  the  coast  and  put  on  board  a  yacht- 
which  Sir  Roderick  had  apparently  hired  for  the  purpose, 
Where  she  sailed  for  we  have  not  yet  discovered,  but  it  was 
probably  for  England,  as  Sir  Roderick  was  at  Merrilees  less 
than  a  fortnight  later.  We  shall  hope  to  trace  her  within  a 
short  time. 

"  The  child  died  the  day  after  the  departure  of  the  party 
from  Foligno.  It  was  buried  at  Spoleto,  which  is  the  next 
place  they  would  reach  on  their  journey  to  the  coast.  There 
is  a  stone,  and  it  bears  the  inscription  '  To  the  memory  of 
the  Infant  Son  of  Sir  Roderick  Bertram,  8th  Baronet,  of 
Merrilees,  Cumberland.  Born  March  ?4th,  18 — .  Died 
March  lyth,  18— .'  That  is  all." 

And  that  was  all  of  Calthorp's  letter,  which  ended  abruptly 
with  a  "  Yours  sincerely." 

"Well,  that  relieves  us  of  anxiety  about   the   'rightful 


MERRILEES  AGAIN.  155 

heir,'  **  said  Guy  to  himself.  "  Poor  little  beggar  !  He  would 
have  been  in  my  shoes  if  he  had  lived,  and  I  hope  they 
would  have  fitted  him." 

A  gleam  of  sunshine,  the  first  he  had  seen  that  day,  made 
the  raindrops  on  the  windows  sparkle,  and  with  the  hurrying 
clouds  away  went  Guy's  melancholy.  His  spirits  sprang 
to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  before  he  had  reached  Preston 
he  had  already  decided  upon  the  party  he  would  ask  to  a 
house-warming  at  Merrilees  when  Lord  Caradoc's  tenancy 
should  have  expired,  and  he  himself  should  finally  take  up 
his  residence  there. 

By  the  time  he  reached  Keswick  it  was  nearly  dark. 
The  old  coachman,  who  had  been  transferred  to  the 
service  of  Lord  Caradoc,  smiled  down  on  him  from  the 
same  stately  seat,  but  the  plebeian  horses  he  had  driven 
before  had  been  replaced  by  a  pair  of  powerful,  well-bred 
greys.  Guy  wondered  whether  Mrs.  Herbert  had  already 
reorganised  the  stables,  for  he  felt  sure  that  Lord  Caradoc 
could  never  have  done  so. 

The  long  drive  in  the  clear,  rain-washed  air,  with  the 
stars  shining  out  of  a  cloudless  sky,  was  pleasant  enough 
after  the  long  train  journey.  Once  more  he  passed  the  little 
wood  and  the  whitewashed  cottages,  rumbled  down  the 
loose  stony  hill  and  through  the  park  gates  to  the  borders 
of  the  lake.  The  boat  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  jetty, 
and  in  the  stern  were  two  cloaked  figures,  who  turned  out 
to  be  Cicely  and  Mrs.  Herbert. 

"  We  have  come  across  to  welcome  you,"  said  the  older 
lady  as  he  stepped  into  the  boat.  "  We  have  been  kept  in- 
doors all  day  by  the  rain,  and  the  lake  looked  so  lovely  in 
the  starlight  that  we  could  not  resist  the  excitement  of  a 
little  expedition." 

Guy  felt  unaccountably  cheered  by  their  companionship. 
The  dreary  influences  of  the  place  had  begun  to  close  round 


156  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

him  again  during  the  latter  part  of  the  drive,  and  he  had 
been  looking  forward  with  discomfort  to  putting  out  across 
the  dark  water  away  from  the  lights  and  bustle  of  the 
shore.  But  everything  was  changed  while  this  nice  elderly 
lady  chatted  commonplaces  and  the  girl  holding  the  rudder 
lines  by  his  side  steered  a  somewhat  erratic  course  towards 
the  island. 

They  went  up  the  terraces  from  the  lake  laughing  and 
talking  and  into  the  lighted  hall.  Lord  Caradoc  had  torn 
himself  away  from  the  fascination  of  the  Ffoulkes  Library, 
which  had  held  him  in  its  grip  all  day  long,  to  welcome 
his  guest,  but  soon  excused  himself  and  left  the  ladies  to 
entertain  him  over  a  late  supper,  and  Guy  went  to  sleep 
in  his  old  room  with  very  different  feelings  from  those  with 
which  he  had  occupied  it  last. 


CHAPTER    XIIL 

THE   GREAT  WORK. 

LORD  CARADOC  had  breakfasted  when  Guy  made  his 
appearance  the  next  morning,  but  Cicely  and  Mrs.  Herbert 
were  awaiting  him  in  the  breakfast  parlour. 

"  Father  has  hardly  stirred  out  of  the  library  since  we 
have  been  here,"  said  Cicely.  "  We  went  over  to  Morth- 
waite  to  church  on  Sunday  morning,  and  after  luncheon 
I  got  him  to  walk  round  the  gardens  with  me.  He  was 
delighted,  and  said  that  Sir  Roderick  must  have  been  a 
great  gardener.  Later  on  I  expect  he  will  spend  a  good 
deal  of  his  time  out  of  doors,  but  at  present  the  library 
has  greater  attractions  for  him." 

The  morning  was  wet.  Guy  finished  his  after-breakfast 
pipe  in  the  smoking  room,  and  stood  at  the  window 
watching  the  raindrops  jump  on  the  paved  walks  of  the 
Dutch  garden,  and  wondering  what  on  earth  he  could  find 
to  do  with  himself.  The  morning  papers  would  not  arrive 
until  twelve  o'clock  on  the  following  day,  which  left  a 
considerable  time  to  be  filled  up.  The  alternatives  were  a 
novel,  a  game  of  patience,  or  an  invasion  of  the  privacy 
of  the  ladies.  *'  I  wonder  whether  Miss  Cicely  can  read 
music  well  enough  to  make  it  worth  while  asking  her  to 
play  some  duets,  and  whether  there  are  any  here,"  he  was 
saying  to  himself,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Cicely  came 
in.  Apparently  she  was  as  much  in  need  of  distraction  as 
he  was,  and  in  her  youth  and  innocence  she  seemed  so 


158  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

ready  to  make  friends  that  Guy  felt  pleased  at  the  thought 
of  her  companionship. 

"  Shall  we  go  over  the  house  ?  "  she  said.    **  There  is  a 
great  deal  to  see,  and  I  waited  for  you  to  show  it  me.** 
"  Haven't  you  been  in  all  the  rooms  yet  ?  " 
"  No,  only  a  few  of  them." 

'*  That  will  be  just  the  thing  for  a  wet  morning,  then. 
Come  along.  The  house  is  a  sort  of  South  Kensington 
Museum  of  art  treasures,  and  I  can't  pretend  to  be  a  very 
good  guide  to  them.  But  I  will  do  my  best.  There  really 
ought  to  be  a  catalogue.  All  the  materials  for  it  are  up- 
stairs. Now,  where  shall  we  begin  ?  '* 

They  began  with  the  great  drawing-room,  the  room  which 
Guy  told  Cicely  had  been  in  constant  preparation  as  if  for 
the  use  of  the  dearly  loved  lady  who  had  been  dead  five- 
and-twenty  years. 

"  The  morning-room  was  just  the  same,  Mrs.  Cheetham 
told  me,"  said  Cicely  in  a  low  voice,  "  the  room  next  door, 
that  Mrs.  Herbert  and  I  use.  And  there  are  rooms  upstairs 
which  were  hers  too.  I  haven't  been  into  them  yet." 

"Those  have  been  kept  exactly  as  they  were  when  she 
last  used  them,"  said  Guy.  "These  have  been  altered  a 
good  deal  since.  Many  of  these  pictures  and  the  other 
beautiful  things  have  been  bought  since  she  died.  But,  as 
you  see,  they  have  not  been  put  in  anyhow.  It  is  just  as 
if  he  had  enriched  the  room  for  her  sake ;  and  it  was 
always  kept  open,  as  if  it  might  be  used  at  any  time." 

They  spent  some  time  examining  the  pictures,  the 
cabinets  of  china,  the  enamels,  and  the  beautiful  pieces  of 
stately  furniture,  for  which  it  seemed  as  if  all  parts  of  the 
globe  had  been  ransacked.  Guy  knew  something  about 
such  things,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  Cicely  knew  a 
good  deal  too.  It  appeared  that  Mrs.  Herbert,  that  woman 
so  admirably  equipped  for  all  contingencies,  had  taken 


THE  GREAT  WORK.  159 

her  regularly  to  the  treasure-chambers  at  South  Kensington, 
and  insisted  on  a  systematic  study  of  their  contents. 

*'  It  was  instead  of  German,"  explained  Cicely,  "  which 
I  always  hated." 

From  the  big  drawing-room  they  passed  into  the  music- 
room  leading  out  of  it,  where  there  was  an  organ,  which 
had  not  been  used  for  the  quarter  of  a  century  during 
which  this  great  beautiful  house  had  enshrined  the  dreams 
and  regrets  of  one  lonely  man.  But  it  had  been  kept  in 
order,  and  the  room  had  resounded  once  a  year  to  the 
discordant  shrieks  and  hoots  of  the  tuner.  Here  they  found 
a  whole  library  of  music,  and  it  appeared  that  Cicely  had 
been  accustomed  to  playing  those  admirable  arrangements 
for  the  piano  of  the  works  of  the  great  masters,  symphonies, 
operas,  and  chamber  music. 

"  With  Mrs.  Herbert  ?  "  inquired  Guy.  "  She  seems  to 
know  and  do  everything." 

"  She  can't  do  that,"  said  Cicely,  with  a  smile.  **I  wish 
she  could,  because  I  shall  miss  it  now.  Mary  Conder  used 
to  come  and  play  duets  with  me.  She  doesn't  play  very 
well,  but  she  was  always  nice  about  it,  and  didn't  mind 
playing  wrong  notes  a  bit." 

"  Oh,  well,  that's  something,"  said  Guy,  encouragingly. 

"She  was  rather  too  strong  for  me,"  admitted  Cicely. 
"  I  always  made  her  play  the  treble,  because,  if  she  played 
the  bass,  I  could  never  hear  what  I  was  doing.  But  she 
couldn't  keep  to  her  own  part  of  the  piano,  and  was  always 
digging  chips  out  of  me  with  her  little  finger-nails." 

"Yes,  she's  a  thoroughly  nice,  kind-hearted  girl,  Mary 
Conder,"  said  Guy,  "  always  willing  to  oblige,  and  that's 
more  than  you  can  say  of  everybody.  But  all  the  Conders 
are  that.  Bobby  would  give  the  nose  off  his  face  to  any- 
body he  thought  might  want  it.  I  shouldn't  myself, 
because  there's  not  enough  of  it,  certainly  not  enough  for 


i6o  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

two.  Look  here,  Miss  Cicely,  do  you  see  that  cabinet? 
That  is  full  of  the  finest  collection  of  mezzotints  I  have 
seen  outside  the  British  Museum.  What  they  are  worth 
now  I  couldn't  say,  probably  about  twenty  times  what  my 
cousin  gave  for  them.  I'm  afraid  I  have  taken  a  good 
many  of  them  away  for  my  cottage,  but  there  are  plenty 
left,  and  we  will  go  over  them  some  day  or  other." 

Leading  out  of  the  music-room  was  another  smaller 
drawing-room  and  a  conservatory  filled  with  flowers. 
There  were  more  cabinets  in  this  room,  full  of  beautiful, 
priceless  things,  which  they  examined  together,  comparing 
their  slender  stock  of  knowledge. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Guy,  glancing  at  the  glass 
dome  of  the  conservatory,  on  which  the  rain  was  dropping 
ceaselessly.  "  Shall  we  begin  to  make  a  catalogue  of  these 
things  while  I  am  here  ?  There  isn't  one  that  I  know  of, 
but  there  is  all  the  information  in  books  upstairs.  It 
would  be  interesting  work,  and  would  give  us  something 
to  do  when  we  are  tired  of  playing  duets  on  a  wet  morning 
like  this." 

Cicely  assented  eagerly,  as  she  would  have  done  to  any- 
thing that  Guy  had  suggested,  and  that  was  how  the  "  Cata- 
logue of  the  Contents  of  Merrilees,  Cumberland,"  came  to 
be  compiled,  of  which  a  hundred  copies,  printed  on  hand- 
made paper  and  bound  in  vellum,  were  afterwards  issued, 
and  are  prized  by  collectors.  Cicely  had  eventually  to 
finish  the  compilation  with  the  assistance  of  Mrs.  Herbert, 
for  they  did  not  get  very  far  during  Guy's  brief  visit. 

They  went  upstairs  still  discussing  their  plan,  and  into 
Lady  Bertram's  rooms.  The  first  was  a  boudoir  over  the 
morning  room.  It  was  not  so  full  of  furniture  as  the 
rooms  downstairs,  but  it  gave  a  more  intimate  impression 
of  human  occupancy.  It  seemed  impossible  that  it  should 
never  have  been  used  during  those  many  years.  There  was 


THE  GREAT   WORK.  161 

a  little  low  chair  drawn  up  close  to  the  fireplace,  and  a 
work  table  by  its  side.  On  one  of  the  tables  was  an 
embroidery  frame  with  a  half-finished  design,  and  the 
needles  and  the  skeins  of  silk  still  attached  to  it.  Books 
were  scattered  about  on  other  tables,  old-fashioned  books 
in  rich  bindings.  There  was  a  guitar  hanging  on  the  wall, 
and  a  tall  harp  in  one  corner  with  many  broken  strings. 
A  square  piano  stood  near  a  window,  open,  with  an  Italian 
song  on  the  music  stand.  The  keys  were  discoloured,  and 
as  Guy  touched  them  they  gave  a  melancholy,  discordant 
note.  No  tunei  had  been  allowed  to  enter  this  sacred 
room.  An  empty  bird-cage  stood  on  a  stand  near  the 
fireplace,  and  an  empty  basket  with  a  little  rug  was  on 
the  floor  beside  it. 

"  Mrs.  Cheetham  always  dusted  these  rooms  herself," 
said  Guy ;  "  and  no  one  ever  entered  them  but  she  and 
Sir  Roderick.  His  wife  died  abroad,  you  know,  but  when 
he  came  back  he  had  everything  arranged  just  as  when 
she  had  last  used  them,  and  so  they  have  remained  ever 
since." 

They  went  through  the  poor  lady's  dressing-room  and 
the  big  bedroom  beyond,  and  came  out  again  subdued  and 
saddened  by  the  impression  of  ever-abiding  loss  which  the 
rooms  conveyed,  so  natural  with  their  tale  of  life  and  yet 
telling  so  strangely  of  that  life  long  since  cut  off. 

"  We  will  leave  them  just  as  they  are,"  said  Cicely.  "  I 
don't  suppose  we  shall  ever  have  the  house  so  full  that  we 
shall  want  them,  and  there  are  plenty  of  others." 

Sir  Roderick's  rooms  on  the  floor  above  were  also  shut 
up.  They  went  past  the  big  bedroom  where  he  had  died, 
but  Guy  took  Cicely  into  the  dressing-room  and  showed 
her  the  books  in  which  the  purchases  were  recorded  of  the 
things  they  would  eater  in  their  catalogue. 

"This  is  the  old  part  of  the  house,"  he  said,  as  they 

H.M.  M 


162  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

opened  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  corridor.  "It  is  very 
old  indeed,  and  was  built  in  times  when  they  used  to 
fortify  their  houses.  I  don't  know  who  it  belonged  to  then. 
Sir  Michael,  who  practically  rebuilt  the  house,  was  the 
first  Bertram  who  lived  here." 

They  found  themselves  at  the  head  of  a  turret  stair 
enclosed  in  immense  thickness  of  solid  stone.  This  part 
of  the  house  was  of  some  extent,  but  was  hidden  from  the 
south  by  the  long  front  of  Italian  architecture.  There  were 
stone  passages  and  stairways,  little  rooms  with  groined 
ceilings,  mostly  unfurnished  or  containing  discarded  pieces 
of  heavy  and  old-fashioned  lumber.  They  went  up  the  turret 
stair  and  out  on  to  the  roof,  which  was  entirely  shaded  and 
hidden  by  the  great  trees  that  grew  up  to  the  very  walls. 

They  went  down  again,  and  on  the  ground  floor  came 
across  a  little  old  chapel,  dark  and  gloomy,  with  a  stone 
altar  marked  with  five  crosses.  Otherwise  it  was  quite 
empty,  and  the  dust  of  ages  lay  in  the  corners  and  on  the 
remains  of  rude  carvings. 

'*  I  wonder  when  this  was  last  used,"  said  Guy.  "  Cen- 
turies ago,  I  expect.  I  know  nothing  of  the  early  history 
of  the  house." 

"Someone  has  been  here  lately,"  said  Cicely,  pointing 
co  the  stone  floor,  upon  which  the  dust  and  dirt  had  been 
recently  disturbed. 

"  Someone  has  been  everywhere,  all  over  the  house,"  said 
Guy.  "  I  doubt  whether  there  is  a  corner  that  has  not  been 
ransacked.  Let  us  go  and  see  the  west  wing." 

A  heavy  oak  door,  studded  with  nails,  led  out  of  the 
remains  of  this  mediaeval  fortress  into  an  addition  of  more 
recent,  but  still  ancient  times.  The  outer  walls  were  partly 
the  same,  but  the  interior  was  full  of  oak-panelled  rooms, 
with  plastered  ceilings  and  great  open  fireplaces  rich  with 
carvings. 


THE  GREAT  WORK.  163 

"This  is  pure  Elizabethan,"  said  Guy.  *I  wish  there 
was  more  of  it.  With  the  exception  of  the  breakfast 
parlour  and  the  smoking  room,  it  has  been  given  up  entirely 
to  the  servants.  I  think  if  I  ever  came  to  live  here  I  should 
rescue  some  of  the  rooms.  This  panelling  is  very  fine,  and 
it  is  nearly  all  in  perfect  preservation.  Sir  Michael,  with 
his  Italian  tastes,  could  hardly  be  expected  to  appreciate  it ; 
but  he  evidently  had  the  good  sense  to  leave  it  as  it 
was.  Come  upstairs,  and  I  will  show  you  something 
interesting." 

They  mounted  by  a  massive  oak  staircase  to  the  second 
floor,  and  Guy  led  the  way  into  the  dark  little  room  which 
had  been  Martin's.  The  doors  of  the  great  iron  safe  stared 
at  them  from  the  wall,  startlingly  incongruous. 

**This  is  where  the  great  hoard  of  jewels  was  kept,"  said 
Guy.  "  You  may  imagine  my  feelings  when  we  opened  it 
and  found  it  empty." 

He  pushed  back  the  heavy  door  and  disclosed  the  rows  of 
baize-covered  shelves  that  had  held  treasures  of  almost 
fabulous  value,  beside  which  the  varied  contents  of  the 
rest  of  the  house  sank  into  insignificance. 

They  looked  in  at  the  telling  emptiness.  "  Come  along," 
said  Guy,  turning  away.  *4  It  gives  me  the  blues.  Let  us 
go  and  make  music." 

But  the  duets  had  to  be  postponed  for  that  morning. 
The  butler  waylaid  them  at  the  door  of  the  music-room 
with  a  request  that  Sir  Guy  would  kindly  step  into  the 
library  and  speak  to  his  lordship. 

Lord  Caradoc  was  discovered  in  a  state  of  suppressed 
excitement,  which,  if  he  had  been  a  man  of  anything  but  a 
very  spare  "  habit  of  body,"  might  have  led  to  an  attack 
of  apoplexy.  He  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  great 
library. 

44  Come   in  here ;  come  in  here,"  he  cried,  as  his  guest 

M  a 


164  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

entered,  and  darted  into  the  inner  room  with  head  bent,  like 
a  rabbit  bolting  into  his  hole.  Guy  followed  him  with  his 
heart  in  his  mouth. 

There  were  two  smaller  rooms  opening  out  of  the  great 
library.  The  first  was  a  working  room  with  all  the  appliances 
for  learned  toil.  The  second  was  devoted  to  that  famous 
collection  of  books,  the  Ffoulkes  Library.  It  was  lined  with 
books  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  a  little  railed  gallery 
ran  round  it  half-way  up.  It  was  furnished  with  a  severe- 
looking  writing  table,  a  few  chairs,  and  a  cabinet  of  many 
drawers.  It  was  into  this  room  and  up  to  this  cabinet  that 
Lord  Caradoc  led  his  wondering  guest. 

"  I  have  made  a  discovery,  a  great  discovery,"  he  said, 
rubbing  his  hands  and  peering  through  his  glasses  at  Guy. 
"  I  thought  you  told  me  you  had  been  through  Sir  Roderick's 
papers  in  this  room  and  found  nothing  of  importance  ?  " 

"  I  looked  through  them  rather  cursorily,"  replied  Guy ; 
"  but  I  don't  think  I  overlooked  anything." 

"  Nothing  of  importance  ?  "  whispered  Lord  Caradoc  in  a 
voice  of  shocked  surprise.  "  My  dear  young  friend,  do  you 
know  that  in  those  drawers  lies  a  work  which  the  world  has 
been  waiting  for  many  years — the  work  which  I  myself  have 
been  engaged  on  to  the  best  of  my  small  powers  now  for 
some  time  past,  but  with  what  limited  powers  compared  with 
the  genius  shown  here  ?  " 

He  took  a  great  bundle  of  closely  written  manuscript  out 
of  one  of  the  drawers  of  the  cabinet,  and  laid  it  on  the  table 
with  trembling  and  reverent  hands.  Guy  was  too  disap- 
pointed to  speak,  and  stood  immersed  in  regretful  thought 
while  Lord  Caradoc  went  rambling  on. 

"It  is  my  own  subject,"  he  said,  ***Thc  History  of 
England's  Foreign  Policy.'  I  found  it  early  this  morning, 
and  have  looked  casually  through  it.  It  has  been  written 
under  serious  disadvantages,  which  would  have  prevented  a 


THE   GREAT  WORK.  165 

lesser  man  from  undertaking  such  a  stupendous  task.  Access 
to  original  documents  has  been  to  a  great  extent  impossible, 
almost  entirely  so  with  the  exception  of  the  period  for  which 
these  books  and  papers  " — he  waved  his  hand  towards  the 
shelves — "  are  indispensable.  There  are  letters  and  papers  in 
this  library  bearing  on  the  policy  of  Carteret,  for  instance, 
which  have  never  yet  seen  the  light,  and  for  that  period  the 
work  which  I  have  in  my  hands  will  create  the  biggest 
sensation  of  the  day.  And  for  the  whole  period  covered— 
and  the  work,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  is  completed — although 
certain  sources  of  information  have  been  closed  for  the 
writer,  and  there  are  mistakes  and  inaccuracies,  the  grasp, 
the  insight,  the  master-mind  displayed  here,  fill  me  with 
astonishment — I  might  almost  say  with  praise  and  thanks- 
giving," added  Lord  Caradoc,  with  a  dim  remembrance  of 
clerical  aspirations. 

"  My  own  researches  have  been  amply  acknowledged,"  he 
continued  with  lively  satisfaction.  "  But  to  glance  at  this 
precious  work  makes  me  feel  a  mere  day  labourer  in  the 
field.  On  one  point  I  have  come  across  I  am  contradicted 
and  set  right.  I  bow  before  the  judgment.  Oh,  the  wit 
and  intelligence  brought  to  bear  on  my  poor  error !  Nothing 
bitter — too  much  deference,  if  anything,  to  one  so  con- 
spicuously lacking  in  all  that  is  truly  great.  Oh  for  a 
few  hours'  conversation  with  such  a  man  !  I  followed  him, 
I  remember,  in  my  young  days,  followed  his  career  with 
interest,  and  may  perhaps  have  conversed  with  him ;  I  do 
not  recollect.  But  the  ripeness  of  judgment,  the  fruit 
borne — I  should  never  have  expected  to  see  such  a  thing.  I 
can  only  bow  my  head  before  such  a  mind,  and  such  a  task 
accomplished." 

Lord  Caradoc  might  have  gone  on  in  this  laudatory  strain 
for  another  hour.  He  had  evidently  been  aroused  out  of  his 
usual  calm  by  the  discovery  he  had  made,  and  was  talking 


166  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

more  to  himself  than  to  Guy.  Guy,  who  had  somewhat 
recovered  from  his  disappointment  at  the  disclosure  of  the 
nature  of  Lord  Caradoc's  discovery,  and  whose  thoughts  had 
been  busy  during  the  foregoing  speech,  interrupted  it  now 
to  ask : 

"Is  this — this  work  finished?" 

"  As  far  as  I  can  see,  a  period  has  been  put  to  it,"  replied 
Lord  Caradoc.  "  A  chapter  might  have  to  be  written,  of 
which  the  substance  is  already  set  down,  and  a  certain 
amount  of  expert  work  would  be  required  to  prepare  it  for 
the  press,  but  there  is  nothing  that  a  far  less  original  mind 
might  not  undertake  with  success." 

"This  is  how  my  cousin  spent  his  days  and  his  years 
shut  up  here,"  said  Guy,  "  and,  as  with  everything  else  in 
his  arrangements,  the  end  of  this  year  was  to  see  it  all 
completed." 

Lord  Caradoc  ignored  this  remark.  "  No  time  ought  to 
be  lost  in  publishing  this  for  the  benefit  of  the  world,"  he 
said.  "  It  will  undoubtedly  make  a  sensation.  If  you  are 
willing,  I  propose  to  put  my  other  work  aside  for  the 
present  and  devote  myself  to  preparing  these  valuable 
documents  for  publication." 

"  That  would  be  a  great  honour,  Lord  Caradoc." 

This  polite  acknowledgment  of  his  undoubted  eminence 
in  the  field  of  historical  research  seemed  to  cause  Lord 
Caradoc  pain. 

"Tut,  tut  I"  he  replied.  "There  could  be  no  talk  of 
such  a  thing.  The  honour  would  be  mine.  I  should  write 
an  introduction,  and  a  few  notes  where  opinions  expressed 
would  doubtless  have  been  modified  in  the  light  of  recent 
knowledge.  I  should  have  no  wish  to  arrogate  to  myself 
any  of  the  glory  that  must  accrue  to  the  memory  of  the 
author  of  such  a  work.  What  I  should  like  would  be  to 
ask  a  competent  scholar  to  assist  me  in  the  details  of 


THE  GREAT  WORK.  167 

revision.  There  is  an  immense  pile  of  manuscript,  of  which 
this  is  a  very  small  part,  to  go  through.  I  cannot  at  present 
bring  to  mind  any  young  rising  scholar  to  whom  I  could 
apply.  Have  you  anyone  in  your  miiid  to  whom  you 
would  care  to  entrust  such  a  work  ?  " 

Guy,  whose  historical  knowledge  was  confined  chiefly  to 
a  few  details  in  the  lives  of  King  Alfred,  King  Henry,  and 
the  Duke  of  Clarence,  in  connection  with  cakes,  lampreys, 
and  Malmsey  wine,  was  about  to  reply  in  the  negative 
when  he  bethought  himself. 

"  I  think  I  do  know  of  a  man,**  he  said,  and  mentioned 
George  Greenfield. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Lord  Caradoc.  "  His  name  is  familiar 
to  me.  I  read  an  essay  of  his,  which  I  think  won  a 
University  prize,  with  very  great  interest.  It  was  imma- 
ture, perhaps,  but  showed  undoubted  grasp  of  his  subject 
and,  I  think,  the  true  historical  spirit.  You  could  not  have 
mentioned  anyone  more  satisfactory.  Would  he  undertake 
it,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  He  is  always  full  of  work ;  but  I  could  write  and  ask 
him.  He  is  not  very  well  off,  I  believe." 

"I  should  expect,  of  course,  to  reimburse  him  liberally 
for  his  loss  of  time,"  said  Lord  Caradoc,  and  he  mentioned 
a  sum  so  handsome  that  Guy  could  only  feel  overcome  by 
deputy  at  his  generosity.  "  I  should  like  to  work  with  a 
young  man  of  such  ability,  and  you  may  tell  him,  I  think, 
from  me  that  it  will  be  of  some  advantage  to  him  for  his 
name  to  be  connected  with  such  a  work  as  this.  I  should 
wish,  if  I  might  suggest  it,  that  you  should  write  to 
Mr.  Greenfield  to-day,  and  the  sooner  we  set  to  work  the 
better."  . 

Guy  wrote  to  George  that  afternoon  and  informed  him 
of  the  great  discovery,  the  importance  of  which,  he  said,  he 
took  from  Lord  Caradoc,  not  being  a  judge  of  such  matters 


168  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

himself,  and  proposed  that  George  should  come  to  Merrilees 
forthwith. 

George,  delighted  enough  at  the  proposal,  replied  that  he 
would  be  able  to  devote  the  following  month  to  Lord 
Caradoc's  service,  and  would  come  to  Merrilees  in  a  week 
from  that  time.  Lord  Caradoc,  having  been  even  more 
struck  than  he  had  acknowledged  by  the  brilliance  of 
the  essay  which  had  come  under  his  notice,  was  made 
exceedingly  content,  and  Guy  returned  to  London  just 
before  George's  arrival,  delighted  at  having  pleased  Lord 
Caradoc  and  done  a  service  to  his  friend. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

GUT  BERTRAM  MAKES  A  PROMISB. 

POOR  little  Peggy,  so  rudely  disturbed  in  the  recesses  of 
her  maidenly  soul  by  her  father's  words,  took  little  pleasure 
in  her  newly  acquired  emancipation.  George  had  taken  no 
step,  and  proposed  to  take  none,  to  comply  with  Mr.  Richards's 
demands,  but  a  letter  had  reached  Mrs.  Greenfield  early  in 
the  week  from  Glasgow,  stating  shortly  that  Mr.  Richards 
did  not  think  there  was  much  chance  of  Sir  Guy  Bertram's 
coming  again  to  the  cottage  unless  he  were  asked,  and,  as 
he  understood  that  he  would  not  be  asked,  Peggy  might 
stay  on  at  Highgate. 

Relieved  by  this  decision,  the  girl  tried  to  take  the 
pleasure  in  her  home  life  which  she  had  anticipated  for 
herself.  But,  truth  to  tell,  that  life  was  very  dull  for  her. 
George  was  at  home  but  little,  and  towards  the  end  of 
July  left  London  altogether  to  work  with  Lord  Caradoc 
at  Merrilees. 

Very  nearly  he  had  written  to  beg  off  his  engagement. 
When  he  had  told  his  mother  of  it,  she  had  grown  pale  and 
frightened,  as,  alas !  he  had  so  often  seen  her  do  of  late, 
and  besought  him  not  to  go.  She  was  not  well,  she  said, 
and  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  such  a  separation  ;  but 
on  being  pressed  she  had  calmed  down,  denied  that  there 
was  anything  the  matter  with  her,  and  finally  reproached 
herself  with  selfishness  in  trying  to  keep  him  back  from 
something  that  would  be  of  advantage  to  him. 

In  truth,  it  was  plain  to  see  that  she  was  anxious  and 


170  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

depressed,  and  George  would  willingly  have  stayed  by  her 
if  he  could  have  helped  her  to  a  more  tranquil  frame  of 
mind.  But  she  made  an  effort  to  disguise  her  state, 
became  cheerful  and  tranquil  as  before  in  his  presence,  and 
laughed  at  her  previous  fears. 

"  You  cannot  do  me  any  good  by  staying  here,"  she  said. 
"  And  if  trouble — if  illness  comes,  it  will  come.  And  you 
will  always  come  to  me,  I  know,  if  I  want  you." 

So  George  went,  only  half  at  ease  in  his  mind,  and 
directly  he  had  gone  Mrs.  Greenfield  fell  back  into  her 
troubled  mood,  and  although  she  would  tell  Peggy  nothing 
of  what  was  on  her  mind  and  did  her  best  to  hide  the 
anxieties  that  were  wearing  her  down,  she  was  not  in  a 
state  to  tranquillise  a  girl  oppressed  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  by  questionings  and  fears  which  she  was  able  neither  to 
define  nor  to  avoid. 

With  Peggy,  as  with  Guy,  the  rude  dragging  into  the 
light  of  what  at  most  lay  germinating  in  the  heart  of 
each  had  forced  her  to  examine  herself,  and  from  her  self- 
examination  she  had  gained  nothing  but  disquietude  and 
distress.  She  had  friends  in  Highgate,  friends  of  her  own 
age,  both  girls  and  boys,  but  she  took  little  pleasure  in 
their  society,  and  still  less  in  the  quiet  but  no  longer 
tranquil  life  of  the  cottage.  She  found  herself  often 
walking  along  the  lane,  as  little  crowded  on  a  weekday 
as  a  country  road,  which  led  to  the  Heath,  where  she  had 
been  so  happy  and  light-hearted  on  that  Sunday  afternoon, 
pouring  her  own  little  plans  and  hopes  into  Guy's  friendly 
ear  and  listening  with  so  much  pleasure  to  those  he 
imparted  to  her  in  return.  If  her  home  life  had  been 
cheerful  and  gay  at  this  time,  and  if  she  had  been 
surrounded  by  the  distractions  which  take  a  young  girl's 
thoughts  away  from  inward  broodings,  she  might  soon  have 
got  over  the  unpleasant  shock  of  her  father's  interference, 


GUY  BERTRAM  MAKES  A  PROMISE.  171 

As  it  was,  she  brooded  on  it,  and  Guy,  the  cause  of  it,  was 
never  out  of  her  mind  for  long  together. 

As  for  Guy  himself,  he  was  almost  in  a  worse  case.  A 
man,  especially  a  young  man,  who  has  not  kept  a  very 
careful  guard  over  his  impulses  and  has  never  been  seriously 
bitten  by  passion,  does  not  treat  the  thought  of  love  as  an 
impertinent  intrusion.  He  is  rather  inclined  to  meet  it 
with  open  arms  as  a  new  and  delightful  experience.  And 
Guy,  .if  before  his  interview  with  Mr.  Richards  he  would 
have  scouted  the  idea  of  being  in  love  with  Peggy,  was 
now  very  sure  that  he  was  so,  and  suffered  accordingly. 

When  he  returned  from  his  visit  to  Merrilees  he  found 
London  nearly  deserted.  He  went  down  to  Surrey,  as  he 
had  intended,  and  overlooked  the  first  staking  out  of  his 
garden  and  the  laying  of  the  foundations  of  his  house. 
But  after  three  days  or  so  he  found  this  very  dull  work. 
Matters  progressed  with  irritating  slowness,  he  could  not 
be  hanging  about  his  new  property  all  day  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  the  cottage  rooms  he  had  taken  were  lonely 
in  the  extreme,  and,  as  it  happened,  he  knew  none  of  the 
people  who  lived  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood.  He 
found  himself  thrown  back  on  his  own  thoughts,  and  his 
thoughts  led  him  to  Peggy.  He  cursed  his  folly  in 
promising  unconditionally  not  to  see  her  again. 

A  week  after  his  return  from  Merrilees  he  found  himself 
again  in  his  rooms  at  St.  James's  and  on  the  next  morning 
he  took  himself  and  his  thoughts  to  the  Heath,  to  the 
place  where  he  had  stood  under  the  firs  with  Peggy  and 
looked  at  the  distant  view.  He  had  promised  that  he 
would  not  go  to  Highgate.  The  Heath  was  not  Highgate. 
He  had  promised  that  he  would  not  try  to  see  Peggy,  and 
this  was  not  trying  to  see  her  ;  but  by  this  time  he  knew 
very  well  that  he  was  in  love  with  her,  and  he  felt  that  it 
would  afford  him  some  consolation  to  visit  a  place  of 


17*  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

which  the  attraction  consisted  in  having  visited  it  first  in 
her  company.  He  sat  on  a  seat  under  the  firs  for  an  hour, 
looking  round  every  now  and  then  towards  the  lane  which 
led  up  to  those  breezy  heights  from  Highgate,  and  wondering 
what  he  should  do  if  a  youthful  figure,  which  was  now 
always  present  in  his  mind,  should  appear,  coming  towards 
him  from  amongst  the  trees. 

By-and-by  he  began  to  feel  a  little  ashamed  of  himself. 
Other  people  had  come  from  the  direction  of  Highgate  and 
looked  at  him  questioningly,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
suspiciously,  as  if  they  must  have  known  what  he  was 
there  for ;  and  the  invasion  of  a  party  of  chattering  school- 
girls, one  of  whom  evidently  recognised  him  and  whispered 
to  her  companions,  causing  them  to  regard  him  with  hushed 
delight,  gave  himcause  to  remember  the  penalties  of  notoriety. 

He  walked  across  the  Heath  and  drove  back  to  St. 
James's  Street,  declaring  to  himself  that  he  would  go 
abroad  and  recover  his  independence  of  mind. 

The  next  morning,  because  it  was  fine  and  still,  he  told 
himselt  that  the  view  from  the  firs  would  be  better  worth 
looking  at  than  ever,  and  again  he  made  his  way  thither. 
He  took  a  detour  and  approached  the  plateau  on  which 
the  firs  stood  from  behind  some  thick  bushes.  As  he  came 
out  into  the  open  he  saw  Peggy  standing  before  him  on 
the  spot  on  which  they  had  stood  together  a  month  before, 
gazing  out  over  the  blue  distance  with  a  look  on  her  face 
that  made  his  heart  beat.  She  turned  and  saw  him,  and  the 
light  that  sprang  into  her  eyes  and  flooded  her  face  drove 
away  any  lingering  doubts  he  may  have  possessed  that  she 
was  the  one  girl  in  all  the  world  whom  he  wanted  for  his  own. 

Their  greeting  was  awkward  enough.  It  was  so  obvious, 
however  he  might  have  tried  to  deceive  himself,  that  Guy 
had  come  there  simply  and  solely  on  the  chance  of  seeing 
her,  that  he  could  find  nothing  to  say.  And  Peggy's  face 


GUY   BERTRAM   MAKES  A  PROMISE.     173 

had  told  so  plainly  that  she  was  overjoyed  to  see  him,  that 
no  words  were  possible  to  her  but  those  which  told  of  her 
confusion.  They  stood  side  by  side,  each  trying  to  reduce 
to  order  the  tumult  of  their  thoughts. 

**  I  promised  your  father  that  I  would  not  try  to  see  you," 
said  Guy  at  last  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  My  father  ? "  exclaimed  Peggy  with  a  deep  blush, 
caused  by  the  remembrance  of  her  father's  words  to  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  Guy.  "  He  came  to  see  me  on  that  Sunday 
evening.  I  was  very  angry  with  him  for  what  he  had  said, 
and  I  am  afraid  I  was  rather  rude.  I  was  taken  by  surprise." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  he  hadn't  said  anything  to  you,"  said  Peggy 
in  deep  distress. 

"  Come  and  let  us  sit  down,"  said  Guy,  indicating  a  seat 
near  at  hand. 

"  I  mustn't,"  said  Peggy,  irresolutely.  **  If  you — oh,  I 
don't  know  what  to  do." 

Her  confusion  and  distress  had  the  effect  of  making  Guy 
master  of  himself.  "  I  am  not  sorry  your  father  came 
to  me,"  he  said.  "  It  has  only  made  me  say  sooner  what  I 
should  have  said  later  in  any  case.  I  have  been  thinking 
of  you  ever  since,  little  Peggy,  and  I  can't  do  without  you. 
I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart." 

The  happiness  his  words  brought  her,  piercing  through 
the  trouble  of  her  mind,  was  too  much  for  Peggy.  She  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  cried.  Guy  took  hold  of  her 
hands  and  comforted  her  with  murmured  words  of  love. 

"I  ought  not  to  listen  to  you,"  said  Peggy,  smiling 
at  him  through  her  tears.  "  But  I  can't  help  it." 

"  Of  course  you  can't  help  it,  darling,"  said  Guy,  tenderly. 
"  It  was  meant  that  we  should  love  each  other  the  first  time 
we  met,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Peggy.  •*  I  thought  you  were  veiy 
nice  the  first  time  we  met.** 


174  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  And  I  thought  you  were  adorable,"  said  Guy,  looking 
back  on  the  past  through  the  glasses  of  the  present. 

They  sat  under  the  firs  for  some  time  longer,  perfectly 
happy  in  their  new-found  love.  The  girl  looked  no  further 
forward  than  the  present  delightful  moment.  The  man 
remembered  that  there  was  something  more  to  be  done. 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  your  father  for  having  stolen  your 
heart,  my  darling  ?  "  inquired  Guy  when  he  had  sufficiently 
assured  himself  that  he  had  it. 

Peggy,  recalled  from  the  heights  of  Paradise,  instantly 
grew  troubled  again.  "Must  you — when  shall  you  see 
him  ?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  He  is  in  Glasgow,  isn't  he  ?  I  shall  go  up  to-night  and 
tell  him  I  want  you  for  my  very  own." 

"  Must  you  go  so  soon  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I've  got  no  rights  in  you  yet,  my  sweet  Peggy.  I 
want  to  come  and  see  you  at  High  gate  every  day  of  my 
life,  and  I  am  under  a  promise  not  to  come  to  Highgate  at 
all  at  present.  I  ought  not  to  be  seen  here,  I  suppose  ;  but 
I  shall  have  to  point  out  to  your  father  that  the  place  is 
under  the  jurisdiction  of  the  London  County  Council  and 
is  free  to  all.  I  happened  to  meet  you  here,  and  having 
met  you,  well,  what  could  I  do  but  tell  you  I  loved  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  father  will  be  angry." 

"  Not  a  bit.  He  said  he  didn't  want  your  head  turned, 
though  who  am  I  that  I  should  have  the  power  to  turn  that 
dear  little  head  ?  Have  I  turned  it,  Peggy  ?  " 

"Towards  yourself,  I  think,"  said  Peggy  shyly. 

An  interlude — witnessed  only  by  a  blind  man  at  the 
corner  of  Hampstead  Lane  and  his  Toby  dog,  but  by  them 
with  interest. 

"  Well,  you  see,  your  head  being  already  turned  in  my 
direction,"  explained  Guy,  "  my  keeping  away  from  you 
would  oiily  turn  it  again,  and  that  he  doesn't  want." 


GUY  BERTRAM  MAKES  A  PROMISE.     175 

"  Shall  I  tell  mother  ?  "  asked  Peggy,  already  willing  to 
put  herself  completely  into  his  hands. 

"  Yes,  tell  her,  and  tell  George  ;  or  shall  I  tell 
George  ? " 

M  He  has  gone  up  to  Merrilees,"  Peggy  reminded  him. 

"  So  he  has.  I  don't  know  that  I  won't  look  in  on 
Merrilees  on  my  way  from  Glasgow.  No,  I  won't.  That 
would  keep  me  a  day  longer  from  you,  Peggy.  I  will  write 
to  George  when  I  have  seen  your  father." 

So  Peggy  went  back  to  Highgate  after  a  lingering 
farewell  at  the  corner  of  the  lane,  during  which  the  blind 
man  affected  a  supreme  unconsciousness  and  his  dog  barked 
encouragingly ;  and  Guy  drove  back  to  London  with  a 
heart  full  of  love  and  joy. 

Once  more  he  went  hurrying  north,  this  time  by  night, 
and  the  next  morning  found  him  breakfasting  at  St.  Enoch's 
Hotel  in  the  city  of  Glasgow.  Peggy  had  given  him  her 
father's  address,  and  with  no  delay  he  set  out  to  find  that 
redoubtable  man  of  business. 

To  say  that  he  had  no  qualms  concerning  his  forthcoming 
interview  would  not  be  strictly  true.  He  remembered  how 
he  had  angrily  ordered  Mr.  Richards  out  of  his  rooms  on 
the  only  occasion  on  which  they  had  hitherto  met,  and  he 
acknowledged  to  himself  that  his  previous  attitude  would 
need  some  tactful  ignoring.  Of  the  main  results  of  his 
mission  doubts  troubled  him  little.  In  spite  of  the  un- 
certainty attaching  to  his  possible  fortune,  it  had  been  made 
plain  to  him  of  late  that  he  was  considered  matrimonially 
eligible  in  the  mart  of  fashionable  London,  and  although 
Peggy  was  a  princess  among  girls,  the  mental  criticism 
which  it  was  impossible  to  apply  to  her  he  had  already 
allowed  to  play  upon  the  social  position  of  her  father. 
The  very  ground  the  man  had  taken  up  in  issuing  his  veto 
against  their  meeting  one  another  showed  that  the  idea  of 


176  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

Guy's  wanting  to  marry  his  daughter  had  not  occurred  to 
him.  When  he  should  tell  him  that  that  was  what  he  did 
want  it  was  probable  that  a  business  man,  evidently  not  of 
the  first  rank,  would  be  gratified  at  the  thought  of  such  a 
match  for  his  daughter.  Peggy  had  told  him  that  she  had 
hardly  seen  her  father  fifty  times  in  the  course  of  her  life, 
so  that  he  could  not  very  well  object  to  her  being  taken 
away  from  him,  and  Guy  remembered  that  Mr.  Richards 
had  said  that  he  had  no  objections  to  him  personally,  as, 
indeed,  why  should  he  have,  knowing  nothing  about  him 
but  what  everybody  was  at  liberty  to  know  ?  It  was  on  the 
awkwardness  of  the  meeting  that  his  doubts  exercised 
themselves,  not  on  its  final  result. 

Mr.  Richards  had  left  the  house  where  he  lived,  a  dull  little 
house  in  a  dull  little  street,  some  time  before  for  his  office, 
to  which  Guy  was  directed.  "  McDougall,  Richards  &  Co." 
was  the  style  of  the  firm,  and  insurance  broking  its  business, 
though  what  special  occupation  came  under  that  description 
Guy  had  not  the  faintest  idea.  Whatever  it  might  be,  the  firm 
of  McDougall,  Richards  &  Co.  were  apparently  doing  well  at 
it,  for  they  occupied  the  first  floor  of  a  house  of  considerable 
size  in  one  of  the  busiest  streets  of  the  commercial  part  of 
the  city,  and  the  counting-house  was  full  of  clerks.  Guy 
sent  in  his  card  and  was  presently  conducted  into  a  room 
where  Mr.  Richards  sat  writing  on  one  side  of  a  large  table 
and  Mr.  McDougall  on  the  other.  The  latter  gentleman, 
with  a  look  of  some  interest  at  his  partner's  visitor,  left 
the  room,  and  Guy  was  left  alone  with  Mr.  Richards,  who 
motioned  him  to  a  chair  and  waited  in  silence  to  hear  what 
he  had  to  say.  The  business  man  on  his  own  ground, 
breaking  off  in  the  middle  of  important  and  mysterious 
dealings  with  the  great  world  of  commerce,  and  evidently 
anxious  to  return  to  them  again,  had  his  visitor  at  some 
disadvantage,  and  Guy  experienced  a  sensation  of  being 


GUY  BERTRAM   MAKES  A  PROMISE.       177 

once  more  in  statu  pupillari  interviewed  by  his  tutor  on 
some  breach  of  college  discipline. 

"  I  have  seen  your  daughter,"  began  Guy,  rather  awk- 
wardly, for  he  had  not  sufficiently  rehearsed  the  gambits  of 
his  conversation.  A  look  of  annoyance  passed  over  Mr. 
Richards's  face,  and  Guy  hastened  to  add  that  he  had  met 
her  on  Hampstead  Heath  while  he  was  walking  there. 

"  Do  you  often  walk  on  Hampstead  Heath  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Richards. 

"  No,"  replied  Guy.  "  At  any  rate  I  have  come  straight 
up  here  to  ask  for  your  daughter's  hand  in  marriage." 

Mr.  Richards  was  evidently  taken  by  surprise,  and  was 
not  able  entirely  to  hide  it.  He  cast  a  quick  look  at  Guy 
from  under  raised  brows  and  turned  sharply  in  his  seat. 
He  seemed  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  say,  so  said  something 
disagreeable. 

"  You  have  come  up  here  to  ask  my  permission  to  propose 
to  my  daughter  ?  " 

Guy  turned  off  the  sneer  with  the  straightforward  truth. 
"  I  have  already  proposed  to  her,"  he  said.  "  I  have  come 
to  ask  your  permission  to  marry  her." 

"  You  have  already  proposed  to  her,  although  you 
promised  me  not  to  see  or  speak  to  her  again  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  quite  promise  that,  but  I  hope  you  will  put 
that  question  aside  and  consider  that  I  love  your  daughter, 
and  she  loves  me.  You  can  make  any  inquiries  about  me 
you  like.  If  you  give  your  consent  to  our  engagement  I 
will  do  my  very  best  to  make  her  happy,  and — and  I  shall 
consider  myself  a  very  fortunate  man." 

It  might  have  been  thought  that  this  straightforward  and 
on  the  whole  modest  speech  would  have  given  Mr.  Richards 
some  cause  for  self-congratulation,  and  that  he  might  have 
considered  himself  a  fortunate  man  in  securing  a  good- 
looking  young  baronet  of  irreproachable  manners  as  A 

H.M.  • 


178  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

suitor  for  his  daughter's  hand.  He  did  not,  however,  show 
himself  overcome  by  the  honour  that  was  being  done  him. 

"  What  is  your  financial  position  ?  "  he  asked  shortly. 

"I  suppose  everybody  knows  the  rather  extraordinary 
position  in  which  I  stand  at  present,"  said  Guy.  "  As  you 
are  probably  aware,  I  am  the  heir  of  a  very  rich  man,  the 
bulk  of  whose  property  had  been  converted  into  precious 
stones,  which  have  unfortunately  been  stolen." 

"  Well,  I  do  know  that.  But  if  you  are  depending  for  an 
income  on  property  which  you  state  has  been  stolen,  which 
you  will  never  have  the  fingering  of  at  any  rate,  you  can't 
call  your  position  a  very  stable  one." 

"  I  am  not  depending  on  that  for  an  income.  I  have 
about  fifteen  hundred  a  year  besides,  or  shall  have  when 
my  money  is  all  invested,  and  I  have  a  house  which  is  at 
present  let  for  twelve  hundred  a  year." 

"  For  how  much  ?  " 

"Twelve  hundred  a  year.  It  is  let  furnished  to  Lord 
Caradoc  on  a  yearly  tenancy,  and  he  is  not  likely  to  want 
to  give  it  up.  In  fact,  I  think  he  would  like  to  buy  it." 

"  And  would  you  like  to  sell  it  ?  "  Mr.  Richards  asked 
the  question  with  a  thinly  veiled  sneer,  but  Guy's  eyes  were 
downward,  and  he  did  not  notice  it. 

"  Not  at  present,"  he  said.  "  I  am  building  a  little  house 
of  my  own.  I  should  make  it  rather  larger  if  I  were 
married,  and  with  the  income  I  possess,  apart  from  any 
question  of  the  bulk  of  my  fortune,  I  should  be  able  to 
live  there  in  a  quiet  way,  perfectly  free  from  anxiety." 

Mr.  Richards  sat  turning  over  in  his  mind  what  he  had 
heard.  Guy  studied  his  face  meanwhile.  It  was  not  an 
amiable  face  by  any  means,  and  its  owner  was  not  a 
gentleman  in  any  sense  of  the  word  which  Guy  would 
have  been  likely  to  use.  It  struck  him  as  somewhat  incon- 
gruous that  he  should  be  awaiting  the  decision  of  such  a 


GUY  BERTRAM   MAKES  A  PROMISE.       179 

man  on  such  a  question  with  anxiety.  But  Peggy  was 
worth  it,  and  he  swallowed  his  pride.  He  even  allowed  his 
thoughts  to  leap  forward  and  thought  of  the  telegram  he 
would  send  to  Peggy,  and  of  how  he  would  fly  down  to 
Highgate  as  fast  as  steam  and  horseflesh  could  take  him 
when  once  this  disagreeable  interview  was  over. 

Mr.  Richards  looked  up  at  him  as  if  he  had  been  con- 
sidering a  proposition  having  to  do  with  insurance  broking, 
and  had  decided  on  his  course  of  action. 

"  Well,  I  must  refuse  your  offer,"  he  said. 

Guy  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  his  dreams  rudely 
disturbed. 

"  Surely  you  will  give  me  some  reason  ?  "  he  stammered. 

**  I  don't  know  why  I  should,"  replied  Mr.  Richards. 

*I  think  it  is  owing  to  me,"  said  Guy,  collecting  his 
thoughts  and  preparing  himself  to  fight  for  what  was  of 
such  importance  to  him. 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is.  You  have  made  me  a  straight- 
forward proposal.  I  pass  over  the  fact  of  your  going 
behind  your  word  and  speaking  to  my  daughter  first.  That 
is  done  now,  and  she  will  have  to  suffer  for  it.  I  daresay  I 
ought  to  consider  myself  honoured  by  a  proposal  for  her 
from  a  gentleman  in  your  position.  It's  a  higher  one  than 
mine,  whatever  happens.  But  there  are  things  I  put  before 
position.  What  work  have  you  ever  done  in  your  life? 
How  have  you  used  your  time  and  your  opportunities  ? 
You  are  about  twenty-six,  I  suppose  ?  What  have  you  ever 
done  but  amuse  yourself  ?  " 

Guy  saw  in  a  flash  of  insight  the  point  of  view  of  a  man 
who  had  made  his  own  way  in  the  world,  his  ideals  and 
objects,  and  his  dislike  of  men  to  whom  the  good  things 
of  life  come  with  no  labour  on  their  part.  He  set  himself 
to  do  justice  to  this  point  of  view  and  to  meet  it. 

"I  daresay  I  must  seem  to  you  an  idle  and  useless 

N  a 


i8o  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

fellow,"  he  said  quietly.     "Perhaps  I  am.    But  I  have 
never  been  obliged  to  work  to  make  a  living,  and  you  may 
easily  assure  yourself  that  I  have  not  made  a  bad  use  of  my 
money  and  my  time,  if  I  have  not  made  a  very  good  one." 
"  That's  all  very  well,  but  it  wouldn't  help  you  much  if 
you  found  yourself  without  any  money  at  all.     What  did 
you  live  on  before — before  you  came  into  this  property  ?  " 
"  I  had  an  allowance  from  my  cousin." 
"  And  what  would  you  have  done  if  he  had  stopped  your 
allowance,  or  left  his  money  to  somebody  else,  as  he  might 
very  well  have  done  for  all  you  knew  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     The  question  never  arose.     I  was  his 
only  living  relative,  and  directly  my  father  died  he  made 
me  this  allowance,  which  was  to  last,  I  suppose,  and  did 
last,  until  I  succeeded  him." 
"You  never  saw  your  cousin?*' 

"  Not  since  I  can  remember.  But  there  was  nothing  odd 
in  that.  He  shut  himself  up  in  his  house  the  year  after  I 
was  born,  and  saw  nobody." 

"  Well,  as  I  say,  supposing  he  had  left  his  property  away 
from  you  ?  " 

"  He  had  no  power  to  leave  the  house  away  from  me.** 
M  The  house !     The  house  brings  in  nothing." 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.     It  brings  in  twelve  hundred  a  year. 
And  it  is  only  to  be  supposed,  as  he  recognised  me  as  his 

heir — indeed,  he  couldn't  help  it — that " 

"  Supposing  he  had  married  again  and  had  a  son  of 
his  own,  what  should  you  have  done  then  ?  "  interrupted 
the  other. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Richards,  none  of  these  unfortunate 
things  happened,  or  were  likely  to  happen,  my  cousin  being 
what  he  was.  The  question  is,  surely,  not  what  I  should 
have  done  in  the  event  of  having  to  work  for  my  living,  but 
whether,  being  sufficiently  provided  for,  as  it  turned  out, 


GUY  BERTRAM   MAKES  A  PROMISE.       181 

1  have  done  anything  to  make  me  unworthy  to  many  your 
daughter." 

Mr.  Richards  rose  and  paced  the  room,  it  seemed  to  Guy, 
in  some  agitation. 

"  I  can't  allow  it,  and  you  must  take  that  as  final,"  he 
said  at  last,  reseating  himself.  "  If  you  were  to  lose  your 
money  to-morrow  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  earn  enough  to 
keep  yourself,  much  less  a  wife.  From  the  point  of  view  of 
a  business  man,  you  are  good  for  nothing." 

"Oh,  but  really,"  said  Guy,  now  beginning  to  get 
alarmed,  "all  that  is  surely  absolutely  beside  the  mark. 
I  am  not  in  the  least  likely  to  lose  my  money,  or  any  part 
of  it.  I  am  much  more  likely  to  find  a  very  great  deal 
more.  My  income  will  be  perfectly  safely  invested — you 
can  have  all  the  information  you  want  as  to  that — and 
my  house  in  Cumberland  is  so  full  of  treasures  that  if 
I  were  to  sell  only  a  part  of  its  contents  I  should  get 
enough  to  make  me  a  rich  man." 

"  You  can't  sell  them." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  saying  that.  I  could 
sell  everything  if  I  wanted  to.  But  I  don't  want  to.  I 
have  got  enough  without.  And  why  should  you  expect 
that  your  daughter  should  make  a  better  marriage  from  a 
financial  point  of  view  ?  Heaven  knows  I  don't  want  to 
claim  any  superiority.  In  all  that  matters  that's  on  her 
side.  But  you  can't  deny  that  an  income  getting  on  for 
three  thousand  a  year  would  give  her  a  good  deal  more 
than  she  has  now,  and  I  should  say,  speaking  perfectly 
plainly,  more  than  you  could  give  her  yourself  if  she  lived 
with  you." 

"  I  don't  deny  it.  All  I  say  is  that  your  ideas  and  mine 
are  so  different  that  I  can  do  nothing  but  refuse  your  offer, 
and  I  sha'n't  change  my  mind  if  you  sit  and  talk  to  me 
about  it  all  day." 


i8a  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

Guy  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  tether.  He  felt  that 
nothing  he  could  say  would  break  down  the  obstinacy  of 
the  man  opposed  to  him.  "  Is  the  happiness  of  your 
daughter  nothing  to  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  a  better  judge  of  what  will  cause  my  daughter's 
nappiness  than  you  are,  or  than  she  is  at  her  age,'* 
answered  Mr.  Richards. 

"  I  can't  believe  that  you  will  refuse  me  on  such  grounds, 
such  absurd  grounds,  as  you  take  up,"  urged  Guy. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  believe  it  sooner  or  later," 
said  Mr.  Richards,  "  and  the  sooner  the  better  for  your 
sake.  I  have  made  up  my  mind,  and  nothing  you  can  say 
will  make  me  alter  it." 

Guy  saw  plainly  that  at  present,  at  any  rate,  it  was  of 
no  use  trying.  He  rose  from  his  chair.  "  I  can't  take  such 
a  refusal,  Mr.  Richards,"  he  said.  "  It  is  in  the  highest 
degree  unreasonable.  I  shall  leave  you  to  think  it  over, 
and  shall  come  to  you  again." 

"  What  I  say,  I  say  finally,"  replied  the  other  doggedly. 

"  Even  if  I  recover  the  very  large  property  that  has  been 
stolen  from  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Richards  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  If  those  jewels, 
or  the  greater  part  of  them,  ever  come  into  your  posses- 
sion," he  said,  "  I  will — I  will  reconsider  the  matter.  Let 
that  content  you.  And  until  then  I  must  ask  for  your 
definite  promise  that  you  do  not  hold  any  communication 
with  my  daughter  whatever.  That  is  plain  enough,  and 
there  must  be  no  getting  behind  the  promise  this  time." 

"  I  can't  make  the  promise.  I  made  such  a  promise  to 
you  once,  not  knowing  what  I  was  doing,  and  I — if  you 
like  to  say  so— I  broke  it.  If  I  met  her  again,  as  I  did 
yesterday,  I  should  speak  to  her.  I  couldn't  help  myself. 
This  isn't  a  small  matter  to  me.  Besides,"  he  continued 
more  hotly,  "  why  should  I  promise  you  anything  ?  I  know 


GUY  BERTRAM  MAKES  A  PROMISE.   183 

that  she  is  ever  so  much  too  good  for  me  in  herself,  but 
there  are  plenty  of  people,  who  could  reasonably  look  for 
great  matches  for  their  daughters,  who  wouldn't  refuse  me 
if  I  went  and  told  them  what  I  have  told  you.  With  you 
it  is  a  mere  money  bargain  !  If  I  become  a  very  rich  man 
you  will  '  reconsider  the  matter ' !  Until  that  happens  you 
won't  look  at  me.  The  fact  that  I  love  your  daughter  goes 
for  nothing." 

"Well,  I  take  that  back,  then,"  said  Mr.  Richards, 
roughly.  "  I  only  said  it  because  I  don't  think  there's  the 
slightest  chance  of  your  ever  becoming  a  very  rich  man. 
And  I  didn't  say  I  should  give  my  consent  then.  No.  I 
take  that  back  definitely.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  the  girl. 
And  I  tell  you  this,  that  if  you  don't  undertake  to  hold  no 
sort  of  communication  with  her  whatever  I'll  send  her 
away  altogether.  I've  had  enough  of  this,  and  I'll  end  it 
now — once  for  all." 

"  I  won't  promise  you  anything,"  said  Guy. 

"  Then  you  may  get  out  of  my  room  as  you  tried  to  turn 
me  out  of  yours.  And  I'll  take  very  good  care  that  you 
don't  see  my  daughter  again,  whether  you  promise  or  not. 
She'll  have  to  suffer  for  it,  of  course.  But  a  lot  you  care 
for  that ! " 

Guy  came  back  into  the  room  again.  "  If  I  promise  what 
you  want,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  will  you  let  me  write  to 
her  once  ?  " 

"  No,  I  won't.  I  will  write  to  her  myself.  I'll  have  this 
business  broken  off  now  for  good  one  way  or  the  other. 
And,  whichever  way  it  is,  you  won't  be  the  gainer.  If  you 
leave  her  alone  she  can  stop  where  she  is.  If  you  won't  she 
shall  come  here,  and  I  shall  keep  a  pretty  sharp  eye  on  her. 
You  can  make  up  your  mind  which  it  is  to  be,  for  I've  no 
more  time  to  waste." 

And  for  poor  little  Peggy's  sake  Guy  promised. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

*TOU   MUST   BRING   ME   MORE.1* 

GEORGE  GREENFIELD  arrived  at  Merrilees  on  the  evening 
of  a  day  of  wind  and  rain.  As  he  alighted  from  the  carriage 
that  had  brought  him  from  the  station  and  took  his  seat 
in  the  boat  which  was  to  bear  him  across  the  dark  waters 
to  the  island,  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  so  gloomy 
a  place.  The  rain  drove  in  his  face.  Fallen  leaves  and 
broken  boughs  strewed  the  terraces  up  which  he  mounted  to 
the  house,  standing  dark  and  gloomy  above  him.  The 
decaying  touch  of  autumn  was  already  laid  on  all  the 
summer  beauty. 

George  had  lived  his  life  in  cities.  His  were  the  interests 
and  pleasure  of  human  intercourse,  and  he  had  rowed  with 
the  best  of  his  fellows  down  the  busy  stream  of  life.  It  is 
true  that  he  had  the  tastes  of  a  sportsman,  and  was  not 
ignorant  of  the  more  active  pursuits  of  country  life ;  but 
the  placidities  of  existence,  far  removed  from  the  centres  of 
living  interest,  had  no  attraction  for  him.  His  chief  thought 
on  his  first  approach  to  the  beautiful  house  of  Merrilees  was  of 
wonder  that  any  man  with  active  brain  and  intellect  could 
possibly  support  life  in  such  a  place. 

Dull  the  house  of  Merrilees  might  very  well  appear  to  a 
young  man  of  perfect  health  and  ardent  ambitions,  coming 
to  it  from  a  life  of  such  mental  activity  as  George  had  been 
leading.  But  to  no  one  of  ordinary  intelligence  and  sensi- 
bility could  its  interior  fail  t«  appeal  as  something  rare  and 
exquisite,  with  whatever  feelings  he  might  enter  it  George 


"YOU   MUST   BRING   ME   MORE."         185 

saw  but  few  of  its  treasures  on  the  first  evening  of  his 
arrival,  but  what  he  did  see  made  an  impression  on  his 
mind  all  the  greater  for  its  being  half  unconscious.  Lord 
Caradoc  met  him  in  the  hall,  and  could  hardly  wait  until 
he  had  changed  his  wet  clothes  and  eaten  a  somewhat  hasty 
supper  before  immersing  himself  and  his  guest  in  a  discussion 
of  the  subject  of  which  his  mind  was  full.  Seated  in  the 
inner  library,  he  poured  out  a  flood  of  the  admiration  with 
which  Sir  Roderick  Bertram's  great  work  had  inspired  him. 
George  caught  something  of  his  host's  enthusiasm  and  showed 
it  sufficiently  to  make  Lord  Caradoc  congratulate  himself, 
as  he  escorted  him  to  his  room  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
that  he  had  chanced  upon  a  fellow- worker  of  such  ability. 

George  must  have  fallen  asleep  the  moment  his  head 
touched  the  pillow,  for  he  never  stirred  until  he  was 
awakened  at  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning  by  the  servant 
moving  about  his  room.  The  wind  had  died  down  com- 
pletely during  the  night,  and  there  was  no  cloud  in  the  sky. 
The  view  which  had  so  entranced  Guy  Bertram  on  his  first 
awaking  at  Merrilees  met  George's  eyes  as  he  rose  and  stood 
at  the  open  window.  The  late  summer  flowers  made  a 
brilliant  setting  to  the  stone  carvings  and  balustrades,  and 
the  cascade  splashed  and  sparkled  its  way  down  to  the  blue 
waters  of  the  lake.  It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  youth  to  be 
unmoved  by  so  much  beauty.  It  suggested  the  thought 
that  there  was,  after  all,  something  to  be  said  for  life  in 
such  a  place  as  Merrilees.  The  man  who  was  waiting  on 
him  told  him  where  to  find  the  bathing  place,  and  George  ran 
down  to  the  lake  and  swam  far  out  into  its  cool  waters. 

As  he  climbed  the  stair  again  to  the  house  after  his 
swim,  full  of  youth,  health,  and  energy,  he  was  a  young 
man  whom  it  was  good  to  look  upon.  Probably  no  young 
man  so  handsome  as  George  can  be  altogether  unaware  of 
his  good  looks,  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  no  one  so 


i86  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

generously  treated  by  nature  in  this  respect  could  have 
prided  himself  less  on  his  advantages.  The  thought  of 
marriage  in  the  still  remote  future  may  sometimes  have 
crossed  his  mind,  and  the  prefatory  process  of  falling  in 
love  may  have  occurred  to  him  as  an  accident  to  which  all 
men  are  more  or  less  liable.  But  as  for  seeking  opportuni- 
ties of  falling  in  love,  George's  life  had  hitherto  been  far 
too  full  to  make  such  a  pursuit  either  possible  or  attractive. 
And  at  this  particular  time  in  his  life,  when  new  interests 
and  ambitions  were  thronging  in  on  him,  nothing  can 
have  been  farther  from  his  thoughts  than  the  possibility  of 
the  image  of  a  girl  entering  and  holding  them.  But  his 
time  had  come,  and  his  freedom  of  mind  was  over. 

As  he  ran,  whistling,  up  the  last  flight  of  steps  that  led 
to  the  broad  terrace  in  front  of  the  house,  he  lifted  his  eyes 
and  saw  Cicely  standing  above  him,  a  basket  of  flowers  in 
one  hand,  the  other  resting  on  the  stone  coping  of  the 
balustrade.  He  stopped  suddenly  and  stood  looking  at  her 
until  a  movement  on  her  part  recalled  him  to  himself. 
Then  he  went  forward  and  greeted  her  in  a  manner  as 
commonplace  as  if,  during  those  few  moments,  the  whole 
conscious  scheme  of  his  life  had  not  been  changed.  It 
was  not  her  beauty  that  moved  him,  though  she  was 
beautiful.  Who  can  say  what  there  is  in  the  eyes  of  a  girl 
that  bears  no  message  for  the  many,  but  thrills  the  whole 
being  of  the  one  ?  Love  at  first  sight  is  probably  not  so 
common  an  experience  as  might  be  supposed  from  a  close 
acquaintance  with  the  works  of  the  novelists,  but  in  the 
case  of  a  man  such  as  George  Greenfield,  whose  mind  has 
never  run  on  thoughts  of  love,  it  may  very  well  come  thus, 
a  bolt  from  the  blue. 

The  time  during  which  George  had  stood  and  looked  at 
Cicely  had  been  so  short  as  to  be  scarcely  noticeable.  They 
shook  hands  and  went  into  the  house  together,  talking  of 


"YOU   MUST  BRING   M£   MORE."         187 

the  beaut}  of  the  morning  and  of  the  work  which  George 
had  come  to  Merrilees  to  do. 

He  was  glad  enough  to  get  away  and  be  alone  for  a  few 
minutes.  He  recognised  what  had  befallen  him  and 
wanted  to  adapt  his  thoughts  to  it.  But,  as  he  finished  his 
dressing  in  the  room  with  the  windows  wide  open  towards 
the  lake  and  the  distant  woods,  he  found  that  his  thoughts 
refused  to  be  reduced  to  order.  It  was  too  early  yet.  The 
event  had  been  too  sudden.  All  that  he  knew  was  that 
the  lake  sparkled  more  gloriously  in  the  sun,  the  late 
summer  woods  took  on  the  freshness  of  spring,  and  that  all 
the  work  which  he  had  set  himself  to  do  and  which  had 
hitherto  engrossed  his  thoughts  was  as  nothing  to  him 
beside  a  slip  of  a  girl  with  blue  eyes  and  corn-coloured 
hair ;  also  that,  try  as  he  would,  he  could  recall  no  single 
feature  of  her  face. 

All  the  morning  he  worked  with  Lord  Caradoc.  That 
eminent  historian  would  have  liked  to  work  all  the  after- 
noon too,  and  all  the  evening,  but  restrained  himself  so  far 
as  to  suggest  to  George  that  they  might  meet  in  the 
library  again  when  it  began  to  get  dark,  spend  an  hour 
over  their  papers  until  dinner-time,  and  another  hour  or  so 
before  they  went  to  bed.  George  went  up  to  his  room 
again  before  luncheon  and  tried  once  more  to  reduce  the 
new  commotion  in  his  blood  into  terms  of  aspiration  and 
resolve.  But  he  could  only  think  that  in  a  few  minutes  he 
would  be  sitting  at  table  with  her,  and  only  hope  that  the 
afternoon  might  be  spent  in  her  company. 

At  luncheon  Mrs.  Herbert  suggested  tea  in  a  little 
thatched  cottage,  built  for  that  purpose  in  the  wood  at  the 
far  end  of  the  lake.  George  rowed  them  across.  Mrs. 
Herbert  sat  in  the  verandah  of  the  cottage,  knitted,  fell 
asleep,  knitted  and  fell  asleep  again  throughout  the  afternoon, 
George  and  Cicely  walked  by  the  lake  and  picked  up  shiny 


188  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

pebbles.  When  the  time  came  they  built  a  fire  of  sticks, 
boiled  a  kettle,  and  made  tea  with  much  ado.  George  had 
never  felt  so  happy  in  all  his  life.  The  only  drawback  to 
his  happiness  was  a  feeling  of  nervousness  as  to  whether  he 
was  talking  as  well  as  he  could  have  wished.  He  had  not 
experienced  this  nervousness  when  addressing  public  meet- 
ings, as  he  had  occasionally  done  in  pursuance  of  his 
political  aims.  On  those  occasions  the  desire  to  talk  well 
had  inspired  him  to  success.  The  same  desire  now  seemed 
only  to  reduce  him  to  mere  diffident  banality.  He  had 
always  found  it  very  easy  to  amuse  men  with  his  conversa- 
tion. What  could  he  say  that  would  put  him  on  terms  of 
friendship  with  this  young  girl  ? 

He  found  himself  envying  some  of  his  friends  their  ready 
social  tact.  Guy  Bertram,  for  instance — how  very  quickly  he 
had  slipped  into  terms  of  intimacy  with  Peggy  on  that 
June  day  at  Cambridge.  He  mentioned  Guy  Bertram,  and 
found  that  here  was  a  subject  upon  which  he  might  talk  with 
the  certainty  of  full  appreciation.  He  told  Cicely  the 
history  of  their  friendship  and  incidents  in  it.  She  asked 
questions  which  showed  her  interest,  and  they  were  not 
confined  entirely  to  the  doings  of  Guy.  Sops  were  thrown 
to  the  egotism  of  the  lover,  and  eagerly  seized.  Feminine 
guile,  innocent,  unconscious  even,  pointed  her  share  in  the 
conversation,  and  George  stretched  his  mental  muscles  at  the 
end  of  it  with  a  deep  sigh  of  ecstasy. 

As  he  worked  far  into  the  night  with  the  indefatigable 
Lord  Caradoc,  his  brain  exercising  its  functions  with 
practised  dexterity,  the  memory  of  the  afternoon  hovered 
round  him  like  a  sweet  odour,  forcing  itself  now  and  then 
on  his  consciousness  in  wafts  of  delight. 

The  days  repeated  themselves,  hard  absorbing  work  in 
the  mornings  and  the  same  at  night,  gliding  hours  of 
pleasure  through  the  golden  afternoons.  Only  a  young 


"YOU   MUST  BRING   ME   MORE."         185 

man  strong  mentally  and  physically  or  an  old  man  trained 
to  a  life  of  active  thought  could  have  done  the  work  that 
Lord  Caradoc  and  George  did  during  those  weeks  of  August 
and  September  in  the  way  they  did  it.  George's  brain  had 
never  been  clearer  nor  his  powers  of  concentration  greater 
than  during  his  hours  of  work.  The  effect  of  a  true 
religion  is  to  glorify  man's  actions  by  unifying  their  aim, 
and  high  love,  the  natural  religion,  carries  with  it  this 
impulse  towards  perfection. 

From  the  moment  when  he  looked  up  and  saw  Cicely 
standing  above  him  in  the  freshness  of  her  young  beauty 
George  gave  himself  a  willing  victim  to  the  strong 
influences  of  a  first  passion.  The  sweet  surprises  and 
discoveries,  the  long  contents  and  sudden  doubts,  the  deep 
humility  and  exultant  pride,  the  hopes,  the  fears,  the 
memories,  of  a  lover,  swept  through  his  soul  and  made  the 
month  of  his  stay  at  Merrilees,  while  he  lived  through  an 
eternity  of  emotional  experience,  pass  like  an  hour  in  the 
fields  of  Paradise. 

George  was  a  man  of  action,  and  not  likely  to  remain 
long  under  the  spell  of  an  indefinite  emotion.  It  was 
characteristic  of  him  that  even  in  the  early  days,  when  the 
glamour  of  his  wooing  was  strongest  upon  him,  his  cool 
judgment  should  have  forced  him  to  weigh  his  intentions 
and  state  to  himself  their  aim.  Certainly,  for  a  young  man 
wi  th  no  prospects  but  those  which  were  founded  on  what  a  more 
than  average  share  of  brains  and  ambitions  might  achieve 
in  the  future,  the  idea  of  a  marriage  with  Lord  Caradoc's 
heiress  might  be  supposed  to  present  obstacles  of  some 
magnitude.  But  distrust  in  his  future  achievements  was  a 
failing  to  which  George  was  a  stranger,  and  he  judged  Lord 
Caradoc  rightly  in  thinking  of  him  as  one  with  whom  lack 
of  means  on  the  part  of  a  suitor  for  his  daughter's  hand 
would  not  weigh  heavily,  supposing  there  were  no  other 


190  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

disability.  Lack  of  birth  might  prove  a  more  serious 
obstacle,  and  George,  who  had  been  wont  to  plume  himself 
on  being  "  one  of  the  people,"  found  himself  half  wishing 
for  a  distinction  surely  in  itself  the  least  valuable  a  man  can 
possess,  but  outweighing  on  certain  occasions  character, 
ability,  beauty,  and  all  the  choicest  gifts  with  which  mankind 
can  be  dowered.  But  as  he  had  hitherto  suffered  no 
inconveniences,  in  whatever  society  he  might  find  himself, 
from  his  lack  of  an  old  and  honourable  name,  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  believe  that  his  hopes  would  be  wrecked, 
because  all  that  he  meant  to  do  in  the  world  would  be  done 
without  the  assistance  of  high  birth  and  connections.  So 
he  put  it  to  himself,  and  hoped  that  Lord  Caradoc's  views 
would  coincide  with  his  own. 

Perhaps,  in  describing  George's  relations  with  Cicely  at  this 
time,  the  word  "wooing"  is  not  the  most  fitting  to  apply  to 
the  attitude  of  a  man  who  knows  his  own  mind,  but  has  not 
yet  disclosed  it,  except  to  himself.  And  yet  the  attempt, 
by  all  means  short  of  an  open  avowal  of  love,  to  gain  a 
footing  in  the  heart  of  another,  so  that  the  avowal  may  in 
time  be  made,  is  a  not  unimportant  stage  in  the  process  of 
wooing.  George,  at  any  rate,  could  not  have  acted  more 
wisely  in  his  own  interests  than  to  lay  himself  out  to  gain 
Cicely's  friendship  and  confidence  without  frightening  that 
shy  little  maid  by  giving  her  a  hint  of  what  he  was  hoping 
for.  And  yet,  alas  for  all  the  smoothness  of  their  inter- 
course !  her  attitude  towards  him  becoming  daily  more 
friendly  and  confiding,  and  his  absorption  in  her  growing 
deeper  and  deeper,  they  were  none  the  less  at  cross -purposes. 
When  one  of  two  mistakes  growing  friendship  for  dawning 
love,  and  the  other  full-grown  love  for  growing  friendship, 
and  both  are  well  content,  it  is  a  pity,  perhaps,  that  things 
cannot  remain  for  ever  in  such  a  state.  But  as  love  needs 
an  avowal,  and  friendship  is  stronger  without,  development 


"YOU   MUST  BRING   ME  MORE."         191 

is  inevitable,  and  it  is  perhaps  curious  that  George  and 
Cicely  should  have  tasted  such  sweet  content  in  one 
another's  company  for  a  month  without  a  break. 

But  George's  passion  impelled  him  to  an  issue.  Cicely's 
tranquil  kindness  and  frank  but  equable  pleasure  in  his 
society  perhaps  saved  her  from  having  her  eyes  opened  by 
a  sudden  disclosure  of  passion.  There  was  nothing  to  take 
him  by  storm  and  provoke  the  declaration  which  he  would 
not  willingly  have  made  except  in  his  own  time  and  with 
full  intention.  And,  with  a  girl  so  young  and  in  some 
ways  so  far  removed  from  him,  the  conviction  grew  upon 
him  that  he  had  no  right  to  make  his  avowal  to  her  with- 
out first  asking  the  permission  of  her  father. 

George  made  his  plea  to  Lord  Caradoc  one  night  in  the 
little  library.  They  had  finished  their  work  together  that 
evening,  and  might  well  have  congratulated  themselves  on 
the  results  of  a  month's  arduous  and  concentrated  toil  as 
the  great  pile  of  orderly  manuscript  lay  before  them,  ready 
for  the  printers.  And  they  had  been  so  congratulating 
themselves,  talking  for  hours  on  what  they  had  accomplished 
and  what  the  results  of  their  work  would  be,  until  the 
lights  in  the  great  Florentine  standards  burned  low  and 
the  September  dawn  glimmered  through  the  curtains.  To 
George,  in  the  ardour  of  his  happy  youth,  the  month's 
work  had  been  the  fruit  of  a  strong  brain,  testing  its  powers 
to  the  full.  To  the  older  man  it  had  been  a  constant 
absorbing  delight,  to  which  every  day  of  a  long  life  of 
trained  endeavour  had  contributed  something.  But  it  had 
brought  him  for  the  time  being  to  the  end  of  his  powers  of 
endurance,  and  even  as  he  talked  and  tasted  anticipations 
in  the  glow  of  a  deed  accomplished  his  weary  brain  was 
beginning  to  lose  its  grasp. 

There  had  been  silence  for  some  minutes.  Lord  Caradoc  had 
been  sitting  in  his  heavy  oak  chair,  the  very  chair  in  which 


192  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

Sir  Roderick  had  sat  day  after  day  for  nearly  half  his  life- 
time preparing  what  these  two  men  were  perhaps  as  capable  of 
appreciating  as  any  two  men  in  England.  They  had  loyally 
and  enthusiastically  put  the  finishing  touch  to  his  labours. 
And  now  the  mind  of  one  of  them  was  slipping  away  from 
what  had  occupied  it  exclusively  for  some  time  past  into 
vague  irresponsible  musings.  The  other  had  thrown  off  all 
remembrance  of  it  and  was  nerving  himself  to  shape  a 
crisis  in  his  own  life. 

George  rose,  and  going  to  the  window,  drew  back  the 
curtains.  The  sad  dawn  lay  grey  over  heavy  trees  and 
dew-drenched  bushes  in  which  birds  were  twittering  in 
preparation  for  the  coming  day.  The  sound  of  the  rings 
clattering  on  the  metal  pole  roused  Lord  Caradoc,  who  sat 
up  in  his  chair  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  tired  eyes.  At 
the  same  moment  George  spoke. 

"  I  should  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  you  on  a  persomal 
matter,"  he  said,  moistening  his  lips. 

Lord  Caradoc  turned  towards  him,  courteous  as  ever,  but 
with  his  thoughts  plainly  astray.  George  had  been  trying 
during  those  few  minutes  to  frame  an  opening  to  his  plea, 
but  in  the  gallop  of  his  thoughts  no  words  had  come  to  him. 
He  fell  back  on  a  stilted  form. 

"  I  wish  to  ask  you  for  the  hand  of  your  daughter." 

"  My  daughter  ?  "  echoed  Lord  Caradoc,  still  quite  at  sea. 

"  I  have  loved  her  since  the  moment  T  first  saw  her,"  said 
George,  gathering  courage  as  he  went  on.  "  I  know  that  I 
am  not  worthy  of  her — in  any  way.  But  I  would  devote 
my  life  to  making  her  happy." 

Lord  Caradoc  made  an  effort  and  gathered  his  wandering 
thoughts. 

"  You  take  me  somewhat  by  surprise,  Mr.  Greenfield,"  he 
said.  "  I  am  hardly  prepared — er — at  this  time  to  "  His 
words  dwindled  into  embarrassed  silence. 


"YOU  MUST   BRING   ME   MORE."         193 

"  I  have  chosen  this  time,"  said  George,  "  because  we 
have  finished  the  work  that  we  have  been  doing  together, 
and  there  is  nothing  now  to  keep  me  here.  I  should  like  to 
go  away  with  something  to  work  for  and  hope  for.  I  am 
young,  and  she  is  very  young.  I  do  not  want  to  speak  to 
her  yet.  I  omy  want  to  know  that  I  may  do  so  when  I 
have  gained  a  position  in  life  which  I  can  offer  her — along 
with  myself." 

Lord  Caradoc  was  silent  for  many  minutes,  and  George 
waited  patiently  until  he  should  choose  to  break  his  silence. 
At  last  he  began  to  speak,  slowly,  with  long  pauses  between 
his  sentences,  as  if  his  thoughts  gathered  clearness  as  he 
uttered  them  one  by  one. 

"  I  confess  that  I  had  not  thought  of  my  daughter  as  of 
an  age  to— to  marry,"  he  said — "she  is,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  barely  eighteen — my  wife  was  no  older  when  J 
married  her — I  have  no  objection  to  early  marriages 
— she  will  be  very  rich — I  do  not  demand  that  the 
man  she  marries  shall  be  rich — nor  that  he  shall  be  of 
a  rank  equal  to  her  own — provided  that  he  be  honourable 
—clean-living — and  of  unblemished  birth — and  that  she 
loves  him — you  do  not  tell  me  that  my  daughter  loves 
you."  He  threw  an  anxious  glance  at  George. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  George.   "  I  speak  to  you  first." 

There  was  another  long  pause. 

"  Honourable,  clean-living,  and  of  unblemished  birth,** 
repeated  Lord  Caradoc.  "  I  believe — I  know  you  to  be  the 
first.  Are  you  the  second  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  George. 

"  Of  your  birth  I  know  nothing,"  said  Lord  Caradoc,  and 
waited. 

George  in  his  turn  was  silent.  There  came  surging  over 
him  the  remembrance  of  what  Mr.  Richards  had  told  him  of 
his  father  two  years  before,  the  shame  of  it,  the  conviction 

H.M.  O 


194  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

that,  despite  his  own  upright  youth,  there  clung  to  him  a 
taint  which  no  efforts  of  his  could  throw  off.  He  had  ex- 
perienced something  of  the  same  feeling  after  he  had  first 
heard  the  story  of  his  birth,  but  the  effect  of  those  disclosures 
had  died  down  in  his  mind,  and  only  at  rare  intervals  arisen 
to  trouble  him.  His  home  life  had  been  so  normal,  his 
mother  so  much  like  the  mothers  of  other  men  in  their 
different  stations,  and  he  had  relied  so  much  on  his  own 
efforts  and  his  own  ability  to  make  for  himself  a  name  and 
place  in  the  world,  that  it  had  been  impossible  for  him  to 
brood  over  the  facts  of  his  mother's  early  history  as  they  had 
come  to  him,  or  to  feel  them  as  affecting  his  own  career, 
Even  during  the  past  month,  in  which  he  had  thought  so  much 
of  his  position  and  prospects,  the  certainty  that  Lord  Caradoc 
would  put  to  him  some  such  question  as  that  to  which  he  was 
now  awaiting  an  answer  had  not  occurred  to  him.  In  his 
happiness  and  in  his  eager  outlook  towards  the  future  this 
one  damning  fact  of  the  past  had  kept  itself  hidden  from 
his  thoughts.  Afterwards  he  asked  himself,  in  amazement, 
whether  this  could  really  have  been  so,  but  could  not,  on 
searching  his  memory,  find  that  he  had  ever  pictured  himself 
as  anything  but  a  man  by  himself,  whose  value  in  the  world 
was  created  by  his  own  character  and  achievements.  In- 
credible as  it  might  appear,  he  could  not  remember  having 
cast  one  thought  back  to  his  parentage,  or  considered  it  as 
affecting  his  chances. 

But  Lord  Caradoc  was  waiting  for  his  answer,  and  wait- 
ing now  with  some  surprise  at  his  silence. 

"  My  mother  is  alive,"  he  said.  "  She  is  my  only 
relation.  She  brought  me  up,  and  has  done  everything 
for  me.  I  never  saw  my  father.  He  left  her  before  I 
was  born." 

Lord  Caradoc,  now  in  complete  possession  of  his  faculties, 
looked  at  him  in  surprise. 


"YOU   MUST  BRING   ME  MORE."          195 

44  You  must  know  who  he  was,"  he  said.  "  Your  mother 
must  have  told  you  something." 

"  She  has  told  me  nothing,"  said  George,  "  except  that 
lie  was  dead,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  speak  of  him.*' 

The  growing  light  of  the  September  dawn  seemed  to 
compel  absolute  clearness  and  truthfulness  of  speech,  without 
reserves  and  without  glamour.  Lord  Caradoc  remained 
immersed  in  thought  for  a  long  time,  so  that  it  seemed  as  if 
his  mind  had  again  lost  its  hold  of  present  realities.  George's 
thoughts  as  he  stood  by  the  tall  window,  busy  with  the 
story  of  his  birth,  were  coloured  by  an  intense  anxiety  as  to 
how  the  fact  which  had  troubled  him  scarcely  at  all  during 
his  boyhood  and  early  manhood,  now  realised  with  over- 
whelming force,  would  affect  his  life.  At  last  Lord  Caradoc 
rose  from  his  chair  and  turned  away  from  the  yellow  gleam 
of  the  candles  on  the  table  towards  the  cold  light  of  the 
window.  His  face  was  drawn  and  thin.  It  was  plain  that 
he  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  powers. 

44  You  must  bring  me  more,"  he  said. 

When  Cicely  and  Mrs.  Herbert  came  down  to  breakfast 
that  morning,  they  were  informed  by  the  old  butler  that 
Lord  Caradoc  was  ill  and  could  not  leave  his  room,  and 
that  Mr.  Greenfield  had  been  driven  to  Keswick  soon  after 
six  o'clock  to  catch  the  first  train  to  London. 


o  t 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

"  LIKE  A  THIEF   IN   THE   NIGHT." 

ALTHOUGH  George  had  intended  to  leave  Merrilees  that 
day,  he  would  not  have  gone  so  hurriedly,  nor  without 
bidding  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Herbert  and  Cicely,  had  he  not 
received  a  telegram  dated  the  evening  before  from  Peggy. 

**  Come  home  to-morrow  without  fail.  Do  not  let 
mother  know  I  sent  for  you." 

Conjectures  as  to  the  meaning  of  this  mysterious 
message  kept  his  mind  busy,  and  forebodings  of  illness  or 
trouble  mingled  sadly  enough  with  thoughts  of  the  check 
his  hopes  had  received  the  night  before.  The  cottage  at 
Highgate  had  been  little  in  his  mind  during  the  past 
blissful  month.  He  had  written  perfunctorily  once  or 
twice  to  his  mother,  and  now  blamed  himself  for  not 
having  taken  more  to  heart  the  hints  that  Peggy's  letters 
had  contained  of  something  wrong  at  home.  He  took 
them  and  those  of  his  mother  from  his  pocket.  Mrs. 
Greenfield's  were  much  the  same  as  usual.  She  said  very 
little  about  herself  and  nothing  at  all  about  Peggy,  which 
now  struck  him  as  not  a  little  odd.  Peggy  had  written 
shortly.  There  was  a  total  absence  of  the  spring  and 
light-heartedness  which  had  always  made  her  communica- 
tions so  entertaining.  She  mentioned  once  or  twice  that 
Mrs.  Greenfield  was  not  well.  She  also  said  little  about 
herself,  but  the  general  tone  of  her  letters  was  so  depressed 
that  George  could  hardly  believe,  on  reading  them  one 
after  the  other,  that  their  significance  had  affected  him  so 


"LIKE  A  THIEF  IN   THE  NIGHT."       197 

little.  But  when  he  had  exhausted  his  brain  with  con- 
jectures as  to  what  the  new  trouble  could  be  towards 
which  he  was  now  hastening,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  put  it  away  from  him  until  the  end  of  his  journey, 
leaning  back  in  his  corner  and  losing  himself  in  his  own 
thoughts,  thoughts  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  cottage 
at  Highgate,  so  selfish  does  the  purest  love  make  the  best 
of  us  poor  mortals. 

When  Peggy  had  said  good-bye  to  Guy  at  the  corner  of 
the  Hampstead  lane,  she  walked  back  to  the  cottage  as 
happy  a  girl  as  any  to  be  found  in  England.  All  the 
clouds  had  rolled  away,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  rose- 
coloured  memories  and  anticipations.  She  went  straight 
to  the  room  where  Mrs.  Greenfield  was  sewing  by  the 
window,  knelt  down  beside  her,  and  nestled  her  dark  little 
head  against  the  other  woman's  shoulder. 

"  Something  has  happened  to  me,  mother,"  she  said  in  a 
voice  tremulous  with  emotion. 

Mrs.  Greenfield  put  her  arm  round  the  girl.  She  divined 
her  story,  but  her  face  was  anxious  and  troubled,  and, 
although  she  tried  once  or  twice,  she  could  utter  no  words. 

*  Tell  me,  dear,"  she  whispered  at  last ;  and  Peggy 
poured  into  her  ear  the  wonderful  tale  of  the  morning's 
happenings.  "  And  he  is  going  straight  up  to  Glasgow 
to-night  to  see  father,"  she  ended. 

Mrs.  Greenfield  drew  her  and   held   her  to  her  heart 
'  You  must  not  hope  too  much,  my  darling,"  she  said. 
'    "  Why,  mother  ?  "  exclaimed  Peggy  in  a  voice  full  of 
pain  and  surprise.     "  Surely  father  cannot  say  '  No '  ?    You 
don't  think  so ;  tell  me  you  don't  think  so." 

"  I  don't  know,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Greenfield,  hesitatingly. 
"  But  for  your  own  sake,  darling  Peggy,  do  not  hope  for 
too  much  until  you  know." 


198  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

Peggy  rose  and  drew  herself  up.  "I  shall  hear  to- 
morrow morning,"  she  said.  "  He  promised  to  send  me  a 
telegram  and  to  come  straight  to  me.  I  know  he  will  not 
give  me  up,  whatever  happens."  Pride  in  her  newly 
accepted  lover  prevented  her  asking  what  reasons  her 
father  could  have  for  refusing  him. 

But,  alas  1  no  telegram  came  on  the  morrow,  and  as  the 
day  wore  on  the  picture  of  a  young  man  all  love  and 
eagerness  knocking  at  the  door  faded  into  the  shadow  of  a 
happiness  that  might  have  been.  And  the  next  day  opened 
with  hope,  which  sank  again  into  bitter  disappointment  as 
no  word  came. 

In  the  afternoon  Peggy  had  to  go  out  on  some  domestic 
errand.  When  she  returned  Mrs.  Greenfield  called  her 
to  her. 

"  I  have  had  a  letter,  darling,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was 
pained,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  Peggy  knew 
then  how  much  of  hope  there  had  been  mixed  with  her 
disappointment,  for  it  flickered  and  went  out  and  left  her 
in  darkness.  Her  face  was  white,  and  she  felt  faint  and 
sick.  Mrs.  Greenfield  made  her  sit  beside  her  and  drew 
her  head  on  to  her  breast. 

"  Is  it  all  over,  mother  ?  "  she  asked,  trembling. 

"  Yes,  my  darling,  it  is  all  over.  You  must  put  away  all 
thoughts  of  him  from  your  heart." 

Peggy  was  silent  for  a  time,  fighting  her  pain  with  all 
her  might. 

"Tell  me,*'  she  said,  "You  have  heard  from — from 
father?" 

"  No,"  replied  Mrs.  Greenfield,  and  there  was  no  further 
need  to  ask  whose  hand  had  written  the  letter  which  had 
killed  the  last  tlossom  of  hope. 

"Your  father  has  refused  to  let  him  see  you  or  even 
write  to  you  any  more,"  said  Mrs.  Greenfield.  "  He  was 


••LIKE  A  THIEF  IN   THE   NIGHT."      199 

made  to  promise  that  he  would  not  do  so,  or  you  would 
have  been  taken  away  from  us  at  once  to  live  in 
Glasgow." 

"  How  cruel  of  father,  how  cruel ! "  cried  Peggy,  clenching 
her  hand.  The  little  outburst  of  passion  did  her  good. 
She  felt  better  able  to  bear  what  should  follow.  "  But  he 
can't  have  promised !  "  she  cried  again.  "  He  told  me  he 
loved  me.  He  can't  have  promised  to  give  me  up  so 
easily." 

"Think,  darling,"  said  Mrs.  Greenfield  quietly.  "He 
did  it  to  save  you  pain.  Your  father  would  have  taken 
you  away  from  us  and  kept  you  closely  in  his  own  house." 

"He  ought  not  to  have  promised,"  interrupted  Peggy, 
her  eyes  flashing.  "  He  ought  to  have  trusted  me.  He 
might  have  known  that  I  would  undergo  anything  for  his 
sake.  Does  father  think,"  she  went  on,  with  growing 
excitement,  "  that  I  will  render  him  obedience  longer  than 
I  am  obliged  to  ?  I  hate  him.  Yes,  I  hate  him.  He  has 
never  been  a  father  to  me  in  anything  but  name.  And 
now  for  no  reason  he  tramples  the  happiness  of  my  whole 
life  under  foot  and  cares  nothing.  I  would  have  waited 
for  years  for  him,  and  he  has  given  me  up  at  a  word,  without 
a  struggle.  Oh,  my  heart  will  break."  She  threw  herself 
on  Mrs.  Greenfield's  lap  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

The  older  woman,  her  eyes  heavy  with  sorrow,  comforted 
her  as  well  as  she  was  able.  But  she  could  say  very  little, 
nothing  that  would  give  the  poor  child  whose  heart  was 
so  sore  any  hope,  and  Peggy  wept  herself  out  with  her 
burden  unlightened. 

At  last  she  ceased  and  stood  up.  "  I  will  put  him  out  of 
my  mind,"  she  said.  "  I  will  not  mention  his  name  again. 
I  do  not  even  ask  to  see  his  letter.  You  may  burn  it  or 
keep  it.  I  have  you  left,  mother  darling,  and  now  I  will 
never  be  anything  but  your  daughter." 


200  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

She  knelt  down  again  at  Mrs.  Greenfield's  side,  and  the 
tears  flowed  again,  but  there  was  no  passion  in  them. 
Their  shedding  meant  only  the  renewal  of  the  covenant  of 
love  between  mother  and  daughter. 

No  word  came  from  Mr.  Richards.  Content  with  the 
promise  he  had  extracted,  he  let  matters  take  their  course, 
and  recked  nothing  of  salt  tears  and  heavy  hearts. 

Poor  little  Peggy  suffered  most  bitterly.  She  felt  herself 
forsaken  and  despised.  All  her  pride  in  Guy's  avowal  of 
love  for  her  was  turned  into  resentment  against  him  for 
forsaking  her  so  easily,  and  her  wound  was  so  raw  that 
she  could  not  bear  even  the  gentle  touch  of  her  adopted 
mother's  sympathy.  There  was  complete  silence  between 
them  after  the  truth  had  been  made  plain.  Both  suffered 
together,  the  older  woman  as  deeply  as  the  girl.  And  yet, 
in  spite  of  her  dry-eyed  misery  and  passionate  bursts  of 
resentment,  Peggy  knew  in  her  heart  of  hearts  that,  if  Guy 
were  to  appear  before  her,  her  joy  would  be  so  great  that 
she  would  ask  for  no  explanations,  but  only  sob  out  her 
love  and  forgiveness  in  his  arms.  Her  father  had  much  to 
answer  for  the  almost  insupportable  pain  he  had  brought 
upon  his  child  by  the  dark  workings  of  his  narrow  schemes. 

About  a  week  after  the  downfall  of  her  short-lived 
happiness  Peggy  was  sitting  late  at  night  at  her  open 
window,  going  over  in  her  mind  once  more  the  sickening 
round  of  conjecture  and  baulked  longing.  If  she  went  to 
bed,  poor  child,  she  knew  that  she  would  only  lie  awake 
through  the  long  hours  of  darkness,  a  prey  to  thoughts 
that  would  bring  stifled  cries  of  agony  to  her  lips,  until 
the  dawn  should  bring  her  a  few  hours  of  fitful  sleep,  which 
would  only  make  the  awaking  to  another  day  more  hateful. 
It  was  something  to  feel  the  cool  night  breeze  stir  her  hair, 
and  to  face  her  pain  with  the  fullest  waking  appreciation 
of  its  weight 


"LIKE  A  THIEF  IN   THE   NIGHT."       aoi 

Suddenly  her  heart  leaped  to  her  mouth,  and  she  sat 
frozen  into  stillness  as  she  heard  footsteps  in  the  deep 
silence  of  the  night  stealthily  approaching,  and  a  cautious 
hand  fumbling  at  the  latch  of  the  garden  gate.  The  night 
was  dark,  but  the  glimmer  of  a  gas-lamp  not  far  away 
showed  her  the  figure  of  a  man  in  the  shade  of  the  shrubs 
that  overhung  the  entrance  to  the  short  garden  path.  A 
wild  thrill  of  hope  ran  through  her  blood,  only  to  change 
into  a  feeling  of  terror  as  the  man  crept  stealthily  up  to 
the  door  of  the  cottage  just  below  her,  and  tapped  gently 
on  the  panel  with  his  knuckles.  She  could  not  see  his  face 
under  his  slouched  felt  hat,  but  her  lover  would  never 
come  like  that  by  day  or  night,  and  Peggy's  fright  was  so 
real  as  to  drive  all  thoughts  of  Guy  for  the  time  being 
from  her  mind.  She  controlled  her  terror  so  far  as  to  rise 
from  her  seat  and  creep  to  her  door  with  the  idea  of 
waking  Mrs.  Greenfield.  And  then  another  thought  stopped 
her,  and  brought  a  still  keener  thrill  of  fright.  That 
stealthy  knock  on  the  panel  of  the  door  was  meant  to  be 
answered  by  someone  in  the  house. 

Peggy  stood  immovable.  She  heard  the  door  of  Mrs. 
Greenfield's  room  opened  quietly,  and  saw  through  her  own, 
which  stood  ajar,  the  gleam  of  a  candle  as  someone  went 
softly  downstairs.  She  heard  the  front  door  unchained 
and  opened  slowly,  heard  low  whispering,  the  door  of  the 
parlour  opened  and  closed,  and  voices  in  endless  colloquy, 
murmuring,  murmuring  beneath  her. 

What  should  she  do  ?  Her  mother  was  in  trouble.  That 
she  had  known  for  long.  She  was  ill  and  anxious,  and 
Peggy's  own  unhappiness  had  only  been  added  to  another 
unrevealed  unhappiness  which  she  had  been  bearing  alone. 
Peggy's  whole  soul  went  out  to  her,  and  she  felt  a  quick 
motion  of  penitence  which  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes 
at  having  added  another  burden  to  that  sorely  tried  heart 


202  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

What  could  she  do  to  help  her?  Should  she  go  down 
and  break  in  upon  the  strange  man  and  the  dearly  loved 
woman,  murmuring,  murmuring  in  the  room  below  her  ? 
Should  she  insist  upon  sharing  the  troubles  of  one  who  had 
shared  hers  as  if  they  had  been  her  own  ?  She  could  not 
tell  what  to  do.  She  might  only  work  havoc  and  cause 
still  further  distress  to  one  whom  she  desired  to  help, 
if  she  acted  on  her  impulse  to  go  down,  throw  open  the 
parlour  door,  and  tax  this  furtive  evil  man  with  bringing 
distress  to  a  good  and  gentle  woman.  She  resolutely 
forced  her  mind  to  a  decision  and  finally  locked  her  door 
and  sat  down  again  at  the  open  window,  but  in  the 
shadow  of  the  curtains,  to  wait  for  the  end  of  the  colloquy. 

After  a  long  time,  when  the  church  clock  had  thrice 
chimed  the  quarters,  she  thought  she  heard  from  below 
the  chink  of  glass  or  china,  and  some  time  after  that  the 
doors  were  opened  softly  again.  She  saw  the  ominous 
figure  creep  once  more  down  the  garden  path,  and  heard 
Mrs.  Greenfield's  step  upon  the  stair.  She  held  her  breath 
while  the  handle  of  her  own  door  was  turned  slowly  and 
ineffectually,  and  when  silence  reigned  once  more  in  the  little 
house,  threw  herself  on  her  bed,  and,  tired  out  with  watching 
and  wondering,  slept  till  the  sun  was  high  in  the  sky. 

Somehow,  as  she  dressed  next  morning,  Peggy's  grief 
(seemed  to  have  lost  a  little  of  its  poignancy.  Her  heart 
was  heavy  enough,  but  its  heaviness  was  no  longer  entirely 
on  her  own  account.  She  had  to  devise  means  by  which  she 
could  help  Mrs.  Greenfield  to  bear  her  unnamed  trouble,  and 
in  trying  to  do  so  she  found  the  keen  edge  of  her  own  sorrow 
blunted.  In  pursuance  of  her  decision  the  night  before,  she 
said  to  herself  that  she  would  not  let  her  mother  know  what 
she  had  seen  and  heard,  but  she  would  try  and  get  her  to 
confide  in  her.  And  in  the  strength  of  her  tender  affection 
she  hoped  that  the  older  woman  would  find  some  help. 


"LIKE  A  THIEF  IN  THE   NIGHT."       203 

Peggy  was  shocked  at  Mrs.  Greenfield's  appearance  when 
she  went  downstairs.  The  poor  woman  had  spent  a  sleep- 
less night.  Her  face  was  drawn  and  haggard,  and  there 
were  dark  rings  under  her  eyes.  She  looked  as  if  she  were 
in  mortal  illness,  and  she  sat  at  the  breakfast-table,  eating 
and  drinking  nothing,  too  worn  and  spent  to  hide  her 
misery.  Peggy  forced  her  with  loving  solicitude  to  take 
food,  and  when  she  had  eaten  the  morsel  that  sufficed  for 
her  and  drunk  a  little  tea,  knelt  down  beside  her,  embracing 
her  and  looking  up  into  her  face. 

"  Mother,  darling,"  she  said,  "  you  know  what  my 
trouble  is,  and  you  have  shared  it  with  me.  Won't  you  tell 
me  what  yours  is  and  let  me  share  that  ?  " 

The  poor  woman  broke  down,  and  leaning  her  head  over 
the  girl,  wept  long  and  piteously.  Peggy  said  nothing,  but 
caressed  her  with  murmurs  of  love.  At  last  she  sat  up 
and  dried  her  eyes. 

"  There  is  a  trouble,  dear,"  she  said  quietly,  "  and  perhaps 
it  will  help  me  to  bear  it  more  bravely  and  to  see  my  way 
to  the  end  of  it  now  that  you  have  discovered  that  there 
is  one.  But  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  is." 

"  Has  it  anything  to  do  with  George  ? "  asked  Peggy, 
suddenly  divining  that  it  was  not  in  Mrs.  Greenfield's 
nature  to  feel  such  distress  about  anything  that  would 
touch  herself  alone. 

"It  might  affect  George,"  she  replied.  "But  the  chief 
thing  to  think  of  is  to  keep  all  knowledge  of  it  from  him. 
You  must  not  ask  me  anything  more,  dear  child.  We  botfc 
have  our  griefs  to  bear,  but  we  need  not  talk  about  them 
to  one  another.  It  will  help  us  to  bear  them  better  no\* 
we  know  that  we  are  not  alone  in  them."  And  that  was 
all  she  would  say. 

In  spite  of  the  shadows  hanging  over  the  little  cottage, 
Jife  went  more  tranquilly  after  that.  Peggy  watched 


204  THE  HOUSE   OF  MERRILEES. 

Mrs.  Greenfield  unceasingly,  surrounding  her  with  loving 
care.  And  she  had  the  consolation  of  feeling  that  her  love 
was  not  in  vain.  There  was  no  happiness  for  either  of 
them,  but  many  leaden-footed  hours  of  hopeless  misery. 
And  yet  in  the  tenderness  of  each  towards  the  other  there 
was  solace,  which  helped  them  somehow  through  the  long 
sad  days.  Every  night  Peggy  sat  by  her  window  and 
watched  until  long  after  midnight,  learning  to  face  her  own 
bitter  disappointment  while  she  waited  to  ward  off,  if  she 
could,  another  blow  from  one  whom  she  told  herself  she 
now  loved  better  than  any  other  on  earth. 

And  yet  when  the  events  of  that  dreadful  night  repeated 
themselves,  as  they  did  in  about  a  week's  time,  she  was 
powerless,  and  could  do  nothing  but  sit  and  suffer  in  silence, 
while  again  the  stealthy  steps  crept  up  to  the  door  and  the 
long  low  talking  went  on  in  the  room  below. 

To  Peggy's  surprise  and  thankfulness,  Mrs.  Greenfield 
seemed  to  suffer  less  after  this  visit.  There  were  even 
traces  of  relief  on  her  worn  and  troubled  face  when  Peggy, 
her  heart  wrung  with  anxiety,  greeted  her  the  next  morning, 
and  throughout  that  day  and  those  following  she  made 
some  poor  attempts  at  her  old  cheerfulness,  distressing 
enough  to  witness,  but  not  altogether  unsuccessful.  The 
girl  would,  perhaps,  have  relaxed  her  vigilance  but  that 
with  the  ease  which  came  in  believing  that  her  mother's 
anxieties  were  lessening  the  sense  of  her  own  trouble 
weighed  more  heavily  upon  her;  and  still  she  sat,  night 
after  night,  wrestling  with  her  own  longings,  until  she 
began  to  gain  a  measure  of  peace,  and  came  to  find 
?omfort  in  her  long  vigils  in  the  warm  lime-scented  air  of 
the  silent  nights.  She  had  almost  ceased  to  dread  the 
coming  of  the  furtive  footsteps,  hoping  that  that  trouble 
at  any  rate  was  past,  as  the  nights  went  by  one  by  one 
until  it  was  nearly  a  fortnight  since  she  had  last  heard 


"LIKE  A  THIEF  IN   THE  NIGHT."       205 

them.  And  then  again  on  a  night  when  bitterness  had 
been  absent  from  her  thoughts,  and  she  had  experienced 
only  deep  and  tender  regrets  that  were  almost  contentment, 
she  was  rudely  awakened  from  her  dreams,  and  this  time 
there  was  no  disguising  from  herself  that  she  must  act,  if 
she  wished  to  save  her  friend  and  more  than  mother  from  a 
trouble  no  longer  supportable. 

The  man  came  creeping  up  to  the  door  as  before,  with 
his  hateful  slouched  hat  over  his  face  and  the  stealthy  tread 
that  betrayed  him  for  what  he  was,  a  creature  who  played 
upon  the  fears  of  women  to  gain  his  base  and  selfish  ends. 
But  this  time  his  signal  was  repeated  thrice,  each  time 
more  insistently,  before  it  was  answered.  It  was  plain 
that  this  visit  was  unexpected,  and  that  the  poor  harassed 
woman  who  was  somehow  at  the  mercy  of  her  persecutor 
had  yielded  to  a  false  sense  of  security  and  allowed  herself 
to  sleep.  Not  so  securely,  however,  but  that  at  the  third 
knock,  delivered  so  loudly  that  Peggy  was  in  terror  lest 
the  little  maid  sleeping  at  the  back  of  the  house  should  be 
aroused  by  it,  her  door  opened  quickly,  and  once  again  she 
went  downstairs  to  let  him  in. 

The  murmurs  from  below  were  now  louder  than  they 
had  been,  and  once  or  twice  Peggy  could  almost  distinguish 
words,  but  not  quite.  The  interview  also  was  much 
shorter,  lasting  barely  ten  minutes  before  the  opening  of 
doors  and  voices  now  distinctly  heard  told  her  that  for 
to-night  it  was  over. 

"  Then  you  know  what  I  shall  do,"  the  man  was  saying 
in  a  low  but  rough  and  perfectly  audible  voice  as  the  front 
door  was  opened  and  he  stood  for  a  few  moments  immedi- 
ately beneath  her.  Peggy  hardly  recognised  her  mother's 
voice  as  she  replied, 

"You  will  never  be  so  cruel,  after  all  I  have  done  for 
you." 


2o6  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  All  you  have  done  for  me !  "  sneered  the  man.  "  What 
have  you  done  for  me  compared  to  what's  been  done  for 
you  all  these  years  ?  ** 

"I  have  done  what  I  could— the  very  utmost,"  said 
Mrs.  Greenfield.  "  And  I  will  do  more  if  you  will  but  be 
patient  and  give  me  time.  If  you  drive  me  further  now 
you  will  kill  me.  I  am  ill,  and  cannot  bear  up  any  longer 
under  this  persecution.  If  it  had  not  been  for  my  children 
I  could  not  have  borne  up  so  long." 

"  Your  children  !  "  echoed  the  man  with  an  ugly  oath, 
and  would  have  said  more  but  that  Mrs.  Greenfield  cried 
out  in  a  passion, 

"  Yes,  my  children  !  Vile  and  wicked  as  you  are,  if  you 
separate  me  from  them,  I  will  pray  that  you  may  never 
repent  of  your  sins,  and  that  you  may  go  down  to  your 
grave  unforgiven." 

Her  words  or  her  tone,  startling  in  one  of  such  habitual 
self -repression,  cowed  the  man. 

"  I  shan't  say  any  more,"  he  grumbled  sullenly.  "  But 
you  will  do  what  I  tell  you,  and  I  will  come  in  two  nights' 
time  for  your  answer,"  and  with  that  he  left  her,  making 
no  attempt  to  soften  his  steps  as  he  walked  down  the 
garden  path  and  let  the  gate  swing  to  behind  him. 

There  was  little  sleep  for  Peggy  that  night.  From  the 
room  divided  by  hers  only  by  a  thin  wall  came  moans  and 
muffled  sobs  as  of  one  in  the  last  extremity  of  fear  and 
distress.  Many  times  her  hand  was  on  the  door,  and  once 
she  crept  out  into  the  passage  and  would  have  made  her 
way  to  the  side  of  the  stricken  woman  but  that  a  cessation 
of  the  sounds  of  grief  held  her,  and  she  went  back  to  her 
own  room  and  knelt  by  her  bedside,  sobbing  out  her  own 
grief  over  a  sorrow  she  was  powerless  to  assuage. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Greenfield  was  unable  to  leave  her 
bed.  She  lay  miserable  and  helpless,  and  poor  little  Peggy, 


"LIKE  A   THIEF   IN   THE   NIGHT."       207 

on  whom  sorrow  seemed  to  have  settled  like  a  dove  on  its 
nest,  beat  her  brains  to  discover  what  was  best  to  be  done. 
Something  must  be  done,  and  done  soon,  for  what  hope 
was  there  of  a  recovery  when  the  morning  hours  were 
hurrying  towards  the  threatened  visit  on  the  following 
night  ?  Her  first  impulse  was,  of  course,  to  send  for  George, 
but  she  shrank  from  doing  this  because  she  had  realised 
that  her  mother's  sharpest  agony  had  been  at  the  thought 
of  George  knowing  anything  of  what  had  happened. 
Through  the  long  day,  while  she  tended  the  sick  woman, 
she  argued  out  the  question  in  her  mind. 

This  man  had  the  power  of  separating  Mrs.  Greenfield 
from  herself  and  George.  But  how  ?  Mrs.  Greenfield  had 
called  them  both  her  children.  But  Peggy  herself  was  her 
child  only  in  love  and  gratitude,  and  was  with  her  because 
her  own  father  had  desired  it.  How  could  the  words  of  a 
strange  man  separate  her  from  her  adopted  mother  ?  And 
yet  it  was  no  mere  threat  on  his  part.  It  was  her  mother 
who  had  acknowledged  his  power  to  do  so.  Peggy  weighed 
the  few  words  she  had  heard,  and  weighed  them  again. 
Nothing  became  clear  to  her  except  that  this  must  be  a 
secret  in  Mrs.  Greenfield's  life,  not  a  secret  of  wrongdoing — 
that  she  would  never  believe — but  a  secret  to  which  this 
man  held  the  key,  and  which,  if  it  were  known,  would  rob 
her  life  of  all  that  it  held  dear.  That  the  man  had 
taken  money  to  hold  his  tongue  was  also  clear,  and 
that  his  demands  had  now  risen  to  such  a  pitch  that  it 
was  no  longer  possible  to  meet  them.  But  as  the  day  wore 
on  one  other  thing  became  clear  to  Peggy's  brave  little 
soul,  and  that  was  that  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  that 
could  be  known  or  said  or  done  would  be  strong  enough  to 
tear  her  away  from  her  mother ;  and  when  that  conviction 
had  once  grown  and  settled  in  her  mind  another  grew  to 
keep  it  company — that,  without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt» 


ao8  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

she  might  hold  the  same  of  George.  Then  she  hesitated  no 
longer,  and  in  the  evening,  when  Mrs.  Greenfield  had  asked 
to  be  left  alone  for  a  time,  she  went  out  of  the  cottage  and 
down  the  hill  to  an  office  where  she  was  not  known  and 
sent  the  telegram  to  George  which  reached  him  early 
the  next  morning  in  the  great  house  amongst  the  Cumber- 
land hills. 


CHAPTER   XVIL 
"ALWAYS  MT  SON." 

THE  next  morning  Mrs.  Greenfield  rose  at  her  usual  time. 
She  looked  frightfully  ill,  and  it  was  plain  that  only  by  a 
strong  exercise  of  will  was  she  able  to  summon  her  failing 
strength  to  bear  her  through  the  day.  Peggy,  now  that  she 
had  acted  in  the  way  to  which  her  deliberate  judgment  had 
guided  her,  felt  that  her  responsibility  for  the  issue  of 
affairs  was  less,  and  with  some  sudden  sinkings  of  heart 
lest  for  some  reason  George  should  not  respond  to  her 
summons  in  time,  looked  forward  to  the  afternoon,  when 
she  hoped  he  would  come  to  them  and  take  matters  into 
his  strong  hands.  For  it  was  evident  that  Mrs.  Greenfield 
had  reached  the  limit  of  her  powers  of  endurance,  and, 
whatever  course  her  cowardly  persecutor  decided  to  take, 
was  no  longer  capable,  either  of  averting,  or,  if  it  was  to  be 
what  she  dreaded,  of  supporting  it.  Peggy  did  what  she 
could  to  distract  and  console  her,  but  in  the  poor  woman's 
inability  any  longer  to  respond  to  the  girl's  caressing 
tenderness  there  was  distressing  evidence  again  that  her 
trouble  was  weighing  her  down. 

In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Greenfield  went  up  to  her  room. 
Peggy  sent  the  little  maid  out  on  some  household  errand, 
and  sat  at  her  window  waiting  for  George.  She  had  looked 
out  the  earliest  train  by  which  he  might  be  expected  to 
travel.  It  was  a  very  early  one,  but  she  thought  that  her 
message  would  have  made  him  catch  it  if  he  possibly  could, 
and  if  it  was  punctual  he  ought  to  reach  the  cottage  at  about 


aio  THE   HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

five  o'clock.  Had  she  known  that  her  telegram  had  arrived 
too  late  for  delivery  the  night  before  she  would  not  have 
been  sitting  there  waiting.  But  even  official  life  in  the 
hamlet  of  Morthwaite  so  centred  round  the  house  of 
Merrilees  that  George  had  been  awakened  to  receive  her 
message  before  six  o'clock  that  morning  instead  of  the 
orthodox  eight,  and  had  just  had  time  to  drive  over  and 
catch  the  first  possible  train  to  London.  And  the  train  was 
punctual  to  the  minute,  so  that  shortly  before  five  o'clock 
Peggy's  heart  gave  a  leap  of  intense  joy  and  thankfulness 
as  she  saw  his  hansom  drive  up  to  the  gate.  She  ran 
quickly  but  quietly  down  to  intercept  him,  so  that  she 
might  tell  him  all  that  had  happened  before  his  mother 
should  know  of  his  arrival. 

George  looked  anxious  enough  as  he  came  up  the  garden 
path  carrying  his  kit  bag.  Peggy  put  her  finger  to  her  lips, 
drew  him  silently  into  the  dining-room,  and  shut  the  door 
before  he  spoke. 

"What  is  it,  Peggy?"  he  asked.  "Is  anything  the 
matter  with  mother  ?  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  upstairs — asleep,  I  hope.  But  I  will  tell  her  you 
are  here  in  a  few  minutes,  and  she  will  come  down." 

Then  Peggy  told  him  the  whole  story,  all  she  had  seen 
and  all  she  had  heard,  without  telling  him,  poor  child,  why 
she  had  been  sitting  at  her  window  so  late  when  she  made 
her  first  discovery.  That  grief  had  lain  only  in  the  back- 
ground of  her  mind  for  the  last  two  days,  and  had  hardly 
made  itself  felt  in  the  greater  cause  of  anxiety. 

George  heard  her  in  silence.  His  face  grew  hard,  and  a 
dangerous  glitter  showed  itself  in  his  eyes  as  she  went  on 
with  her  story. 

When  she  had  finished  he  startled  her  mote  than  she  had 
been  startled  in  the  whole  course  of  the  affair. 

"  You  know  who  it  is,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  asked  shortly. 


"ALWAYS   MY  SON."  211 

u  No,"  gasped  Peggy.    "  Do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  George,  "  It  is  my  father.** 

"  George !  "  exclaimed  Peggy  in  open-mouthed  astonish- 
ment. 

"  You  thought  he  was  dead,"  said  George.  "  So  did  I. 
Mother  told  me  he  was  dead,  and  nothing  more  about  him. 
She  may  have  thought  it  was  true.  She  did  think  so,  if  she 
said  it.  And  now  he  has  come  to  life  again  to  disgrace  us." 

His  face  blazed  with  anger  as  he  spoke.  Peggy  had 
never  seen  him  so  moved,  and  was  frightened  at  his 
vehemence.  If  this  creeping  midnight  bully  was  his  father, 
and  was  now  to  be  known  as  such  to  the  world,  all  the 
sweetness  that  had  lately  come  into  his  life  would  have  to  be 
put  behind  him  for  ever.  And  as  he  thought  of  his  mother 
and  what  she  was  even  now  suffering  and  preparing  to 
suffer  his  passion  almost  overpowered  him,  and  it  would 
have  gone  hard  with  Mrs.  Greenfield's  persecutor  if  he  had 
been  within  reach  of  George's  hands  at  that  moment. 

After  a  short  struggle  he  mastered  himself.  He  must 
decide  on  a  plan  quickly.  His  mother  might  be  down  at 
any  moment,  and  when  she  had  once  seen  him  he  might 
not  be  able  to  talk  to  Peggy  again  alone  before  it  was  time 
to  act.  They  hurriedly  discussed  their  course  and  decided, 
dangerous  as  the  shock  might  be  in  Mrs.  Greenfield's  state 
of  health,  that  the  only  thing  to  be  done  was  to  let  her 
admit  the  man,  and  for  George  to  go  into  the  room  where 
they  were  talking  and  insist  on  a  full  explanation. 

"  Whatever  happens,"  he  said,  "  it  is  I  who  must  deal 
with  him  now  and  not  she.  She  is  keeping  this  secret  back 
to  spare  me  pain,  but  I  ought  to  know  it  for  my  own  sake 
as  well  as  hers,  and  I  will  know  it.  Now  go  and  tell 
mother  I  am  here,  Peggy,  and  be  careful  through  the 
evening  not  to  let  her  see  that  there  is  anything  between  us." 

George  was  prepared  to  see  his  mother  looking  ill,  but 

P  a 


2ia  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

her  death-like  pallor  and  her  strained,  eager  look,  when  si* 
came  hurrying  down  to  greet  him,  were  worse  than  any- 
thing he  had  imagined.  He  had  to  disguise  his  distress, 
however,  and  to  give  some  reason  for  his  unexpected 
appearance.  Poor  Mrs.  Greenfield  was  evidently  torn 
between  her  joy  at  seeing  him  and  her  terror  lest  his 
presence  in  the  cottage  might  dispel  the  secrecy  which  she 
wished  to  keep  about  her  coming  ordeal.  She  even 
suggested  that  he  should  go  back  after  dinner  and  sleep  in 
his  chambers,  making  some  excuse  about  his  room  not  being 
prepared  for  him.  But  George  laughed  her  suggestion  away. 

"  Why,  mother  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  have  never  wanted 
to  turn  me  out  of  the  house  before.  And  I  really  couldn't 
travel  another  mile — I  am  so  dead  tired.  I  shall  go  to  bed 
at  ten  o'clock  and  sleep  like  a  log." 

And,  indeed,  after  a  quiet  evening,  during  which  Mrs. 
Greenfield  had  been  almost  cheerful,  as  George  told  them 
all — or  nearly  all — about  his  stay  at  Merrilees,  it  seemed 
not  unlikely  that  he  would  sleep  through  everything  that 
might  happen,  for  he  had  scarcely  closed  his  eyes  the  night 
before,  and  had  been  travelling  by  road  and  rail  since  six 
o'clock  that  morning.  But  he  recognised  the  danger  and 
sat  bolt  upright  in  a  chair  in  his  bedroom,  nodding  un- 
comfortably, until  the  sounds  of  opening  doors  and  quiet 
footsteps,  which  had  become  so  familiar  to  poor  little 
Peggy,  aroused  him  effectually,  and  drove  all  thoughts  of 
sleep  from  his  brain.  He  waited  a  minute  or  two  until 
everything  was  still  and  then  went  out  of  his  room  and 
downstairs.  Peggy  was  standing  at  her  door  as  he  passed, 
a  dark  figure  in  the  shadows.  George  saw  her,  but  they 
said  no  word  to  one  another  as  he  went  down  to  confront 
the  intruder. 

He  could  hear  the  man's  voice  as  he  neared  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs.  It  was  rough  and  peremptory,  and  a  low  cry 


"  ALWAYS  MY  SON. 

from  his  mother  hastened  his  footsteps.  He  threw  open  the 
door  of  the  room  and  strode  in. 

The  man  had  his  hand  on  Mrs.  Greenfield's  shoulder.  He 
seemed  to  be  in  the  act  of  threatening  violence.  Her  hands 
were  clasped  in  entreaty  and  her  thin  grey  hair  framed  a 
piteous  face.  Almost  before  his  presence  could  have  been 
realised  George  had  him  by  the  collar  and  was  shaking 
him  to  and  fro  with  all  the  strength  which  his  powerful 
muscles  and  burning  rage  could  supply.  He  might  even 
have  killed  him  in  his  fury,  but  that  he  was  aware  of  his 
mother  falling  on  to  the  floor  without  a  cry  beside  him. 
He  flung  the  man  from  him  with  all  his  force  into  a  corner 
of  the  room.  Utterly  taken  by  surprise  and  half  strangled, 
but  not  seriously  hurt,  the  wretched  creature  lay  huddled 
against  the  wall. 

"  You  move  hand  or  foot  till  I've  done  with  you,"  George 
blazed  at  him,  "  and  I'll  knock  your  brains  out." 

He  turned  to  his  mother  and  raised  her  tenderly,  calling 
out  to  Peggy,  who  was  in  the  room  as  soon  as  he  had 
called.  Together  they  laid  the  poor  woman  on  a  sofa  and 
took  steps  to  revive  her,  while  the  frightened  rascal  on  the 
floor  in  the  corner  blinked  and  stared  at  them. 

Peggy,  alert  and  capable,  busying  herself  over  the  stricken 
form  on  the  sofa,  cast  a  glance  at  him.  And  the  glance 
brought  a  faint  thrill  of  relief.  He  was  so  absolutely 
unlike  what  it  was  possible  to  imagine  George's  father 
being,  in  all  except  age.  In  the  degradation  of  his  drink- 
sodden  face,  and  the  cowering  attitude  of  his  mean  body, 
there  was  no  hint  that  even  in  youth  and  health  he  had  ever 
possessed  any  distinction,  either  of  birth  or  appearance. 
The  idea  of  such  a  creature  having  ever  been  connected  by 
any  tie  with  a  refined  woman  such  as  Mrs.  Greenfield  was 
difficult  to  believe ;  that  a  man  like  George  could  have 
owed  his  being  to  him  was  inconceivable. 


314  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

It  was  not  long  before  Mrs.  Greenfield  revived,  and  as  she 
came  to  herself  she  seemed  to  summon  all  her  powers  to 
beat  down  the  physical  weakness  which  might  prevent  her 
from  influencing  the  disclosures  that  were  now  bound  to 
come.  She  sat  up  on  the  sofa  and  put  Peggy  away  from  her. 

"  Oh,  George,"  she  whispered  wearily.  "  You  don't  know 
what  you  have  done." 

"  Go  and  rest  now,  mother,"  said  George.  "  I  will  keep" 
this  man  here,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  tell  me  what  you 
fear  from  him." 

"  No,  no,"  said  his  mother.  "  He  must  go  to-night. 
Peggy,  you  must  go  to  bed.  You  must  not  stay  here." 

But  Peggy  refused.  "  I  am  a  woman  now,  mother,"  she 
said,  "  and  perhaps  I  can  help  you  as  even  George  can't. 
I  won't  leave  you." 

"Let  her  stay,  mother,"  said  George.  "She  is  your 
daughter,  and  my  sister  in  everything  but  name.  What 
there  is  to  know,  let  her  know  too.  There  shall  be  no  more 
concealments  between  us  three." 

"  Concealments !  "  said  the  poor  woman.  "  Don't  up- 
braid me  with  that,  George.  I  have  practised  no  conceal- 
ments that  I  was  not  obliged  to." 

"  No,  mother  dearest,"  said  George.  "  But  now  you  are 
obliged  to  conceal  nothing.  I  must  know  what  this  man 
wants  from  you  and  what  threats  he  is  holding  over  you, 
that  I  may  know  how  to  deal  with  him.  And  first  of  all  I 
must  know  who  he  is." 

The  man  cowering  on  the  floor  had  been  slowly  gathering 
himself  together  during  this  speech  and  now  stood  on  his 
feet,  swaying  unsteadily,  with  his  hand  on  the  table  and 
his  evil  eyes  fixed  on  them.  Mrs.  Greenfield  sat  facing  him 
on  the  sofa,  with  Peggy  on  one  side  of  her  and  George  on 
the  other,  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  shuddered  and  hid 
her  face  in  her  hand  as  her  tormentor  at  last  stood  before 


"ALWAYS   MY   SON."  215 

them.  He  looked,  indeed,  a  vile  creature,  with  unshaven 
face,  dirty  clothes,  and  a  malignant  cunning  in  his  eyes 
which  he  turned,  now  upon  George,  now  upon  Mrs.  Green- 
field, as  if  he  were  revolving  in  his  mind  how  he  could 
make  the  one  pay  for  the  punishment  received  from  the 
other.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"  You  had  better  tell  him  to  let  me  go,"  he  said.  "  You 
won't  like  it  if  I  tell  him." 

"Yes,  go !  "  groaned  Mrs.  Greenfield,  and  then  turned  to 
George  with  a  beseeching  gesture.  "  George,  my  son,"  she 
cried.  "  It  is  cruel  of  you  to  drag  the  secrets  of  my  past 
from  me.  I  implore  you  to  let  this  man  go  without 
questioning  him  further.  Believe  me,  oh,  do  believe  me, 
that  it  is  better  that  you  should  not  hear  now  what  he, 
alas,  will  tell  you.  In  time — perhaps  in  a  short  time — you 
will  know  everything,  and  you  will  thank  me  for  keeping 
it  from  you  now,  if  you  do  as  I  beseech  you  to  do."  She 
rocked  to  and  fro  in  her  distress,  and  held  up  imploring 
hands  to  her  son. 

George  was  shaken.  "I  wouldn't  willingly  cause  you 
pain,  mother,"  he  said.  "  And  I  wouldn't  get  from  that 
creature  what  you  could  tell  me  yourself.  But  reasons  have 
arisen  quite  lately  why  I  must  have  an  answer  to  certain 
questions.  If  you  will  give  me  your  word  to  tell  me  every- 
thing I  may  ask  you,  without  reserve,  I  will  let  him  go, 
Will  you  give  me  that  promise  ?  " 

The  man  reached  for  a  chair  and  dropped  heavily  into  it, 
leaning  back  with  an  absurd  affectation  of  indifference. 
Mrs.  Greenfield  sat  with  her  head  bowed  but  without 
speaking. 

"  Will  you  give  me  that  promise,  mother  ?  "  asked  George 
again. 

"  I  cannot.  I  cannot,"  she  wailed.  *'  It  is  beyond  my 
power.  I  am  bound." 


2i6  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  I  don't  want  to  put  pressure  on  you  through  this 
brute,"  said  George.  "  But  I  must  know  certain  things. 
It  is  my  right.  I  must  know  what  my  birth  is.  Perhaps 
the  secrets  between  you  and  this  man  have  nothing  to  do 
with  that,  and  if  you  can  tell  me  that  that  is  so,  and  you 
will  answer  my  questions  on  that  point,  I  will  let  him  go — 
after  I  have  dealt  with  him." 

"Your  birth,"  sneered  the  man.  **A  fine  kid-gloved 
gentleman  you  are  to  talk  about  your  birth  !  Shall  I  tell 
him,  Jane  ? " 

George  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and  his  face  grew 
pale.  Perhaps  he  had  begun  to  hope  that  the  fears  that 
gripped  his  heart  were  groundless.  Perhaps  the  very  sight 
of  the  degraded  being  whose  throat  still  bore  the  marks  of 
his  knuckles  had  driven  them  out  of  his  mind. 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Mrs.  Greenfield  made  no  reply, 
but  still  rocked  herself  to  and  fro,  moaning.  Then  George 
drew  himself  up  and  said  sharply :  "  I  will  ask  nothing  of 
him.  I  can't  bear  that  he  should  be  in  the  same  room  any 
longer  with  you  and  Peggy.  Get  out,  you !  "  He  made  a 
threatening  step  towards  the  man.  "  And  if  you  ever 
come  near  this  house  or  my  mother  again,  I  will  break 
every  bone  in  your  body,  and  then  have  you  locked  up. 
Get  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house,  or  I'll  do 
it  now." 

There  was  a  table  between  him  and  the  man,  who  was 
careful  to  keep  on  the  other  side  of  it  as  he  spoke. 

"  I'm  to  get  out,  am  I  ?  "  he  said.  "  And  you'll  use 
violence  and  then  have  me  locked  up,  will  you  ?  "  His 
hoarse  voice  grew  louder  as  he  went  on.  "  And  who's  got 
a  better  right  to  be  here  than  I  have,  if  I  like  ?  Who's 
got  a  better  right  to  the  money  that's  spent  here,  and  the 
money  that's  been  spent  on  putting  you  above  your  place 
than  I  have  ?  Who's  got  a  better  right  to  stand  by  that 


"ALWAYS  MY  SON."  ai? 

woman  there,  as  you're  standing  now?  Me  or  you? 
Who  am  I  ?  you  ask,  wto  am  I  ?  I'll  tell  you  who  I  am, 
my  fine  fellow " 

But  Mrs.  Greenfield  had  risen  from  her  seat,  and,  waving 
aside  the  support  that  Peggy  would  have  given,  stood  up- 
right, facing  the  coarse  brute  whose  voice  had  risen  almost 
to  a  shout.  "  Stop !  "  she  said  in  a  firm  voice,  and  something 
in  her  appearance  awed  the  man  into  silence. 

Then  she  turned  to  George  and  said  quietly,  "  He  is  my 
husband." 

George  breathed  a  deep  sigh.  "And  my  father,**  he 
added  in  a  low  voice. 

"NO!" 

The  words  were  uttered  by  a  man  who  had  come  into 
the  room  unseen,  and  now  stood  just  inside  the  doorway. 
Mrs.  Greenfield  sank  back  on  the  sofa  and  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands.  u  Thank  God !  "  she  murmured  in  a  tone  of 
infinite  relief.  The  others  turned  to  him  with  one  accord, 
startled  to  the  point  of  terror  by  this  unexpected  intrusion 
in  the  dead  of  the  night,  and  then  Peggy  and  George  cried 
out  in  amazement,  while  the  man  who  had  just  been 
speaking  sank  trembling  into  his  chair,  the  beads  of 
perspiration  standing  out  on  his  white  face. 

It  was  Mr.  Richards  who  had  entered  so  opportunely,  and 
now  took  the  direction  of  the  whole  affair  into  his  hands 
as  was  his  wont. 

Taking  no  notice  at  first  of  the  others  he  went  up  to  the 
man  cowering  in  a  chair  and  whispered  into  his  ear.  The 
man  rose  without  a  word,  and  catching  up  his  hat  would 
have  slunk  out  of  the  room,  but  that  George  sprang 
forward  to  intercept  him. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said,  as  he  stood  before  the  door.  "  Mr. 
Richards  is  very  deep  in  our  family  secrets,  and  comes  at 
a  very  opportune  moment,  but  he  cannot  be  allowed  to 


218  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

settle  things  for  ever  for  us,  without  any  reference  to  me. 
It  isn't  every  day  that  one  finds  a  father  whom  one 
thought — and  hoped — was  dead.  We  must  see  more  of 
each  other.  Sit  down  again." 

He  gave  a  loud  laugh.  Small  wonder  that  the  over- 
whelming events  of  the  night,  coming  after  a  long  and 
tiring  day,  were  beginning  to  work  in  his  overtaxed  brain. 

The  man  stood  where  he  was,  his  head  bent.  Mrs. 
Greenfield  sank  back  on  the  sofa  and  closed  her  eyes 
while  Peggy  chafed  her  limp  hands.  Mr.  Richards  bent 
his  bushy  brows  on  George.  Then  he  turned  to  Peggy. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  asked,  not  unkindly. 
"  This  is  no  place  for  you.  Go  up  to  bed." 

"  No,  she  shall  stay,"  said  George  instantly.  "  She  is 
more  my  mother's  daughter  than  she  is  yours.  What  I 
know  now,  she  knows.  And  whatever  more  there  is  to 
come,  she  shall  know  that  too." 

"  Go  upstairs,  Peggy,"  said  Mr.  Richards  again. 

But  Peggy  defied  him  openly  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life. 

"  I  won't  go,"  she  cried.  "  She  wants  me,  and  you 
shan't  take  me  away  from  her.  You  have  been  cruel 
enough  to  me,  and  she  has  always  been  kind.  I  will  obey 
her  now,  and  not  you,"  and  she  clung  to  the  half-con- 
scious woman  by  her  side,  who  feebly  put  out  her  hand 
and  drew  her  towards  her. 

Then  it  was  that  this  mysterious  man,  deep  in  so  many 
secrets,  at  the  very  moment  of  his  successful  defiance  at 
the  hands  of  a  young  girl,  and  that  girl  his  own  daughter, 
showed  what  stuff  he  was  made  of. 

"  George  Greenfield,"  he  said  slowly,  "  you  have  dis- 
trusted me  ever  since  you  were  a  child.  Some  day  you 
will  know  that  in  everything  I  have  done  I  have  acted 
only  for  your  good.  But  you  won't  know  it  yet  for  some 


"ALWAYS  MY  SON.-  tig 

time,  and  nothing  you  can  say  or  do  will  hasten  that 
time.  All  that  you  can  do  by  thwarting  me  now  is  to 
bring  trouble  on  that  good  woman.  If  you  ask  questions 
of  that  man,  and  he  answers  them — but  he  won't  do  that 
now  I  have  spoken  to  him — he  will  deceive  you,  because 
he  has  deceived  himself.  He  can  tell  you  nothing,  because 
he  knows  nothing.  I  am  the  only  man  that  can  tell  you 
what  you  will  know  some  day,  because  I  am  the  only  man 
in  the  world  that  knows  it.  One  woman  knows  it,  and 
that  is  your  mother.  But  she  is  under  an  oath  to  reveal 
nothing,  and  you  know  her  well  enough  to  know  that  she 
will  not  break  her  oath — even  for  you.  One  more  point 
and  I've  done,  and  you  will  stand  aside  and  let  that  man 
pass.  He  won't  come  near  this  place  again.  You  said 
just  now  that  I  had  come  at  a  timely  moment.  That  was 
truer  than  you  thought.  Your  mother  spoke  the  truth 
when  she  said  that  man  was  her  husband.  And  I  come 
in  to  tell  you  what  no  one  else,  not  even  the  man  himself, 
could  have  told  you.  He  is  not  your  father." 

This  long  speech,  every  sentence  spoken  with  the  utmost 
earnestness,  bore  with  it  the  conviction  of  truth.  George 
said  nothing  in  reply  to  it,  but  hesitatingly,  unwillingly 
as  it  seemed,  moved  away  from  the  door.  It  was  the  most 
effective  reply  he  could  have  made  to  the  other's  words. 

The  man,  who  had  stood  all  this  time,  cowed  and 
silent,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  crept  out  of  the  room 
and  out  of  the  house,  and  returned  no  more  to  trouble  the 
peace  of  its  occupants. 

The  rest  of  that  night  wore  away  in  trouble  and  sorrow. 
Mrs.  Greenfield,  utterly  broken  by  the  load  of  anxiety  she 
had  borne  night  and  day  for  months  past,  and  the  succes- 
sive shocks  that  had  befallen  her  during  the  last  few  hours, 
lay  unconscious,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  the  watchers  rounu 
her  bed,  very  near  death.  Nothing  they  could  do  roused 


230  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

her  from  her  lethargy,  and  at  last  George,  leaving  Peggy 
and  her  father  to  watch,  went  out  to  bring  a  doctor. 

The  two  sat  in  silence  by  the  bed  for  half  an  hour,  while 
the  slow  dawn  crept  into  the  room  and  quenched  the  light 
of  the  candles.  What  thoughts  passed  through  the  mind  of 
the  dark,  gloomy  man,  as  he  sat  with  his  head  on  his  breast ; 
who  could  tell  ?  The  girl,  who  had  so  much  to  reproach 
him  with,  and  to  ask  him,  scarcely  gave  him  a  thought. 
None  of  her  great  anxiety  was  for  herself.  Her  own  troubles 
had  passed  from  her  mind,  and  all  she  prayed  for  was  that 
the  frail  life  ebbing  by  her  side  might  be  spared  to  them 
who  cherished  it  as  a  thing  to  be  loved  and  revered. 

The  doctor,  when  he  came,  looked  very  grave.  He  sent 
for  the  maid,  who  had  been  sleeping  calmly  through  the 
disturbances  of  the  night,  and  turned  George  and  Mr. 
Richards  out  of  the  room.  The  latter,  not  wishing  perhaps 
to  sit  alone  with  George  and  be  subjected  to  his  questions, 
announced  his  intention  of  resting  until  he  should  be 
called  for,  and  retired  to  a  bedroom,  where  he  may  have 
slept  until  the  morning,  for  he  was  not  disturbed. 

George,  finding  the  confinement  of  the  house  insup- 
portable, went  out  and  paced  the  garden  path,  a  prey  to  a 
thousand  fears  and  forebodings,  while  the  man  and  the 
two  women  in  the  room  upstairs  fought  through  the  hours 
of  the  growing  day  to  save  a  human  life. 

Shortly  after  seven  the  doctor  came  down  to  him. 

al  am  going  home  now  for  an  hour  or  two,"  he  said. 
"  I  will  come  back  after  breakfast.  She  is  asleep,  and  is 
not  likely  to  wake  just  yet.  If  she  does,  they  know  what 
to  do,  and  I  shall  be  at  my  house  if  I  am  wanted." 

"  Is  she  very  ill  ?  "  asked  George. 

'*  She  is  very  ill,"  answered  the  doctor.  He  was  an  old 
friend  of  the  little  family.  "  Peggy  has  told  me  that  she 
has  had  months  of  terrible  anxiety,  culminating  in  a  great 


"ALWAYS  MY  SON.M  *ai 

shock.    I  don't  ask  more.    But  if  the  anxiety  continues  or 

the  shock  recurs  it  will  kill  her." 

"  It  is  at  an  end,"  said  George.  He  felt  bitterly  that  he 
could  answer  for  very  little,  but  that,  at  any  rate,  relying 
on  Mr.  Richards's  words,  he  might  safely  promise. 

"  Then  I  hope  we  shall  save  her,"  said  the  doctor,  '*  but 
you  must  be  prepared  for  the  worst.  She  has  gone  through 
too  much  to  allow  us  to  count  on  her  recovery." 

The  words,  kindly  spoken,  but  relentless  in  their  import, 
brought  a  suffocating  sense  of  impotency. 

"  You  will  do  all  that  you  can  ? "  was  all  that  George 
could  find  to  say. 

"  You  may  be  sure  of  that,"  said  the  doctor.  "  And  I 
shall  be  back  in  two  hours  at  the  latest." 

The  day  wore  on  in  ever  deepening  anxiety.  The 
sufferer  dozed,  or  lay  still  with  her  eyes  closed,  taking 
nourishment  when  it  was  brought  to  her,  but  otherwise 
lost  to  what  was  going  on  around  her.  The  lines  of  care 
which  had  marked  her  face  now  for  many  weeks  past  were 
gone,  and  she  lay  quietly,  drifting  slowly  out  to  the  great 
sea  of  illimitable  peace.  It  became  plain  as  the  hours 
went  by  that  nothing  could  be  done  by  those  who  loved  her 
to  keep  her  back,  and  with  stricken  hearts  they  watched  by 
her  side,  drawn  closer  together,  the  young  man  and  the 
girl,  by  common  memories  and  a  common  sorrow. 

Towards  the  evening  there  came  a  flicker  of  dying  life. 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  recognised  her  dear  ones.  How- 
ever they  might  try  to  hide  it,  she  saw  the  hopeless  sorrow 
in  their  faces. 

"  I  know,  dears,  I  know,"  she  said  tenderly  as  they  kissed 
her.  "  I  am  going  to  leave  you."  And  she  held  them  to 
her  with  weak  arms,  as  they  wept  silently,  keeping  back  the 
utmost  of  their  grief  lest  they  should  disturb  the  serenity  of 
her  passing  hour. 


222  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  We  have  had  a  happy  life  together,  darlings,"  she  said 
in  her  low,  fading  voice.  "  No  mother  has  ever  had  two 
such  children  as  mine.  You  are  both  my  children,  are  you 
not — Peggy  as  well  as  George  ?  "  She  joined  their  hands 
together,  and  they  bent  over  her,  holding  her  in  their 
embrace.  "  You  will  be  brother  and  sister  always,"  the 
dying  voice  went  on,  "  whatever  troubles  may  come  to 
you ;  and  the  troubles  will  lighten  by-and-by,  and  dis- 
appear, as  mine  has  disappeared.  Tell  me,  darlings,  that  I 
have  made  your  lives  happy  ?  " 

They  assured  her  of  that,  with  whatever  tender  words 
they  could  summon,  and  she  lay  quietly  and  peacefully  for 
some  time.  Then  she  roused  herself  again  with  an  effort, 
and  the  shadow  of  the  old  trouble  passed  across  her  face. 

"  Is  your  father  here  ?  "  she  asked  of  Peggy,  and  when  she 
had  received  her  reply,  said,  "  I  must  see  him  for  a  few 
minutes  alone." 

"  Oh,  not  now,  mother,"  implored  George. 

"  Yes,  dear,  "  she  insisted.  "  It  is  for  the  sake  of  both  of 
you.  And  it  will  not  be  for  many  minutes.  Come  to  me, 
both  of  you,  when  he  has  gone." 

Mr.  Richards  came  at  once  upon  the  summons.  His  hard 
face  softened  as  he  stood  over  the  bed  and  looked  down  on 
the  dying  woman. 

**  You  have  kept  your  trust  well,"  he  said.  **  I  wish  you 
had  told  me  of  the  other  trouble  before.  I  could  have 
saved  you  from  that." 

"  You  came  directly  I  sent  for  you,"  she  said.  "  It  is  too 
late  to  talk  of  that.  But  tell  me  now  it  will  not  be  for 
long." 

"  You  know  the  time,"  he  said.    "  I  cannot  shorten  it." 

"  I  shall  not  live  to  see  it,"  she  said.  "  But  perhaps  it  is 
better  as  it  is.  I  do  not  repine.  But  I  must  leave  that. 
There  is  so  little  time.  And  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about 


"ALWAYS   MY   SON."  223 

the  dear  girl,  mine  almost  as  much  as  yours.  You  have 
brought  great  trouble  upon  her.  I  have  always  done  your 
bidding.  Now  I  ask  you  before  I  die  to  do  mine.  Give 
back  her  lover  to  her." 

The  man  was  silent.  The  expression  of  his  face 
changed,  as  if  a  struggle  were  going  on  in  his  mind. 
There  was  the  old  changeless  obstinacy  in  it,  but  there 
was  an  anxiety,  a  softening,  even  a  tenderness  in  it  too. 

"  Say  you  will  do  so,  and  let  me  die  in  peace,"  she 
pleaded.  "There  is  so  little  time,  and  I  want  my  dear 
children  back  again." 

Still  he  was  silent. 

"  For  the  sake  of  the  past  and  those  true  lovers,"  she  said. 

There  was  an  instant  change  in  his  face ;  the  hard  eyes 
grew  moist,  the  stern  lips  trembled. 

"  Not  at  once  ;  but  later  I  will  do  it  if  he  is  worthy,"  he 
answered  her. 

"  Then  bid  me  good-bye,  and  send  my  children  to  me," 
she  said. 

He  leaned  over  her  and  took  her  nerveless  hand  in  his. 
44  Good-bye,"  he  said  slowly.  "  You  will  reap  your  reward," 
and  he  left  the  room. 

She  lingered  till  the  night  had  closed  in,  sinking  into 
unconsciousness  soon  after  Mr.  Richards  had  left  her,  with 
short  intervals  during  which  she  was  fully  aware  of  the 
presence  of  George  and  Peggy. 

Towards  nine  o'clock,  when  she  had  lain  for  over  half  an 
hour  quite  still,  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  a  smile  came  over 
her  worn  face.  George  bent  over  her,  longing  passionately 
for  some  last  word  of  recognition,  for  he  knew  that  the  end 
was  very  near.  She  put  out  her  arms  in  a  last  weak  effort. 
"  George,  my  son  !  Always  my  son  !  "  she  cried,  and  then 
her  arms  fell  by  her  side,  and  her  smile  changed  into  the 
endless  content  of  death. 


CHAPTER   XVIIL 

AT  CLOSE   QUARTERS. 

IN  that  sad  confusion  of  mind  which  follows  immediately 
after  the  death  of  one  dearly  loved,  before  those  who 
mourn  the  dead  have  had  time  to  adjust  their  thoughts  to 
the  future,  George  and  Peggy  went  down  from  the  room 
where  Mrs.  Greenfield  was  lying  to  the  parlour.  Mr. 
Richards  sat  by  the  window,  waiting.  He  rose  as  they 
entered  the  room.  Peggy  was  crying,  but  George's  face 
showed  only  bewilderment  at  his  loss.  There  was  no  need 
for  words  to  explain  that  the  end  had  come.  Mr.  Richards's 
hard  face  showed  genuine  sorrow.  He  made  a  movement 
as  if  to  clasp  George's  hand,  but  drew  back  again,  awk- 
wardly. Then  he  looked  at  Peggy  as  if  he  would  fain 
have  done  or  said  something  to  comfort  her,  but  she  seemed 
to  divine  his  intention  and  clung  to  George,  her  tears 
flowing  freely. 

And  so  Mr.  Richards  left  his  consolatory  words  unsaid. 

"  I  can't  do  anymore  for  you,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  go  back 
north  by  the  five  o'clock  train." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  George,  and  turned  away  from  him. 

Mr.  Richards  hesitated. 

"I  don't  want  to  trouble  you  with  business  now,"  he 
said.  "  I  will  write  to  you  when  I  reach  home." 

"  Very  well,"  said  George  again,  and  Mr.  Richards  went 
out  without  any  further  speech.  Perhaps,  in  his  own  way, 
he  had  shown  more  tact  than  might  have  been  expected 
from  him. 


AT   CLOSE   QUARTERS.  225 

His  tact,  however,  such  as  it  was,  seemed  to  fail  him 
when  he  reached  the  stronghold  of  his  own  home,  for  the 
letter  which  came  to  George  three  days  after  Mrs.  Green- 
field's death  contained  no  word  of  sympathy  or  sorrow, 
stated  shortly  that  the  claims  of  business  would  prevent 
his  coming  south  again  to  attend  the  funeral,  and  closed 
with  two  announcements,  the  baldness  of  which  amounted 
almost  to  insolence. 

"  With  regard  to  business  affairs,"  wrote  Mr.  Richards, 
"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once,  to  save  disappointment, 
that  Mrs.  Greenfield's  income  dies  with  her,  and  beyond  a 
few  hundred  pounds  which  she  has  saved  and  left  to  you, 
you  will  be  no  better  off  by  her  death.  She  made  a  will 
some  years  ago  and  appointed  me  as  her  executor.  I 
will  hand  over  your  legacy  as  soon  as  the  legal  formalities 
have  been  completed.  I  have  written  to  Peggy,  telling 
her  to  come  up  here  on  Friday  next.  That  will  give  her 
time  to  make  all  necessary  arrangements." 

It  may  be  supposed  that,  even  in  the  sad  absorption  of 
mind  which  held  him  during  the  days  immediately  fol- 
lowing his  mother's  death,  George  was  not  likely  to  receive 
such  a  communication  without  deep  resentment  But  he 
put  it  out  of  his  mind,  and  made  no  reply  to  it  until 
after  the  funeral. 

Peggy  and  he  drew  very  close  together  during  those 
days.  They  talked  much  of  the  dead  woman  and  all  she 
had  been  to  them,  but  the  events  that  had  immediately 
preceded  her  death  were  never  mentioned.  The  disclosures 
that  had  been  made  on  that  troubled  night  seemed  to  have 
been  wiped  out  of  their  minds  for  the  time  being  by  their 
common  sorrow,  and  even  their  own  private  anxieties  failed 
to  disturb  the  sincerity  of  their  grief. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  little  parlour  of  the  cottage 
on  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  they  had  laid  their 

H.M. 


226  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

mother's  body  to  rest.  For  the  first  time  since  her  death 
they  felt  the  completeness  of  the  separation  which  it  had 
made  between  the  past  and  the  future.  The  happy  days 
and  years  which  both  of  them  had  spent  in  that  quiet 
little  home  were  over,  and  there  remained  for  one  of  them 
work,  perhaps  success,  but  no  longer  the  warmth  of  domestic 
affection ;  for  the  other  an  unknown  future,  emptied  of 
everything  that  had  brightened  her  childhood  and  youth. 

They  had  been  talking,  sadly  enough,  of  the  change  that 
was  imminent  in  their  lives.  George  was  sitting  in  an 
easy  chair  by  the  fire  and  Peggy  on  a  stool  at  his  side. 
Suddenly  she  put  her  hand  on  his  knee  and  burst  into  tears. 
George  caressed  the  dark  little  head,  but  said  nothing.  He 
was  not  far  from  tears  himself. 

"  I  do  so  dread  going  up  there  to  live,"  she  said. 

George  felt  bitterly  that  there  was  no  reply  to  make,  no 
alternative  to  suggest,  nothing  he  could  do  for  her  who  was 
in  all  respects  his  sister,  except  in  the  one  which  would  have 
given  him  the  right  to  make  a  home  for  her. 

"  Never  mind,  little  girl,"  said  George.  "  It  may  not  be 
for  long.  Some  fairy  prince  will  come  along  and  take  you 
away  for  good.  I  don't  think  that  such  a  treasure  of  a  girl 
as  my  little  Peggy  can  hope  to  preserve  her  independence 
for  very  long." 

He  spoke  lightly,  but  Peggy's  tears  flowed  the  more 
freely. 

"  I  shall  never  marry  now,  George,"  she  said,  after  a 
time.  "  I  haven't  told  you  yet  what  happened  before 
darling  mother's  death  ;  but  I  should  like  to  tell  you  now, 
before  I  go  away  from  you  altogether.  You  are  the  only 
person  in  the  world  that  I  can  speak  to  about  it,  and  I 
must  have  somebody  who  knows.  Then  I  shan't  mind  it 
so  much." 

Then  she  told  him  all  about  the  few  hours  of  happiness 


AT  CLOSE  QUARTERS.  827 

she  had  known  after  Guy  had  told  her  love  his  for  he  for, 
of  the  downfall  of  her  happiness,  owing  to  her  father's 
harsh  decision,  and  of  the  extinction  of  her  hope.  The 
telling  of  her  tale  seemed  to  open  afresh  her  heart's  wound. 
44  Why,  oh,  why  does  father  treat  me  like  this  ?  "  she  cried 
at  the  end  of  her  story.  We  should  have  been  so  happy 
together.  And  he  gives  me  nothing  in  exchange  ;  no  love, 
no  tenderness  even.  His  letter  telling  me  to  go  to  him 
next  week  was  just  a  few  lines.  If  I  thought  that  he 
•wanted  me  I  should  not  mind  so  much.  I  would  even  try 
and  forget  his  unkindness  and  be  a  good  daughter  to  him 
and  make  his  home  happy.  But  he  doesn't  want  me.  He 
just  tells  me  the  train  to  travel  by  and  says  nothing  at  all 
about  being  pleased  to  have  me  with  him.  Oh,  he  is 
treating  me  cruelly.** 

George  could  hardly  contain  his  anger;  but  he  showed 
as  little  of  it  as  possible  for  Peggy's  sake. 

"  I  think  it  is  cruel,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  think  what 
objection  he  can  have  to  Guy.  But  I  am  afraid  none  of  us 
know  much  of  the  motives  that  move  your  father.  At  any 
rate,  I  don't  think  his  opposition  can  possibly  last  long, 
dear  Peggy.  You  may  comfort  yourself  with  that.  Guy 
is  a  very  eligible  young  man,  and  I'm  sure  there  is  nothing 
that  can  reasonably  be  urged  against  him.  He  will  go  to 
your  father  again,  and  you  will  see  that  everything  will 
come  right  in  the  end" 

"  I  don't  think  about  that  now,"  said  Peggy,  quietly. 
"  He  gave  me  up  so  easily  when  father  refused  him." 

"  He  said  that  he  had  been  forced  into  it ;  that  he  had 
only  given  the  promise  for  your  sake,  didn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you  must  believe  that.  And  you  mustn't  give  up 
hope.  He  loves  you,  and  love  has  a  way  of  overcoming 
difficulties — when  they  are  not  insuperable  ones."  Poor 

0   2 


228  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

George  thought  of  his  own  love  affair,  well-nigh  hopeless 
as  it  now  appeared,  but  he  did  not  return  Peggy's  confidence 
by  imparting  it  to  her. 

When  she  had  left  him  for  the  night  he  sat  down  to 
consider  the  future.  The  grave  had  closed  finally  on  the 
free  and  happy  days  of  his  youth,  and  its  memories  had 
now  to  be  put  aside  for  a  time,  the  thread  of  the  tangled 
skein  of  life  taken  up  again,  and,  if  it  might  be,  unravelled. 

By-and-by  he  took  out  of  his  pocket  Mr.  Richards's  letter 
and  read  it  over.  He  made  a  strong  effort  to  curb  the 
angry  thoughts  that  rose  to  the  surface  of  his  mind.  Then 
he  went  to  the  writing  table  and  wrote  his  reply. 

"  I  can't  keep  up  the  pretence  of  friendship  with  the 
fellow  any  longer,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  began  formally : 

"  DEAR  SIR,— 

"  I  find  it  impossible  to  believe  that  you  can  expect 
me  to  be  contented  with  the  statements  in  your  letter, 
especially  in  view  of  the  fact  that  they  contradict  other 
statements  already  made  to  me  by  you.  I  intend  to  bring 
Peggy  up  to  Glasgow  next  Friday.  I  shall  stay  the  night 
at  a  hotel  and  call  upon  you  the  next  morning,  when  I 
shall  expect  a  full  explanation  from  you  of  everything 
concerning  my  mother's  property,  as  well  as  of  other 
matters  upon  which  I  now  insist  upon  being  enlightened. 
**  Yours  truly, 

"GEORGE  GREENFIELD.** 

When  he  had  written  and  sealed  this  letter  George  set 
himself  to  the  sad  task  of  going  over  his  mother's  papers, 
not  without  some  hope  of  gaining  a  clue  to  the  mysteries 
that  lay  round  his  own  birth  and  had  shadowed  her  passing 
hours. 

Mrs.  Greenfield  had  kept  all  her  private  papers  in  the 
drawers  of  a  little  Davenport  writing  table,  of  which 


AT  CLOSE  QUARTERS. 

'  George  had  the  key.  But  if  she  had  ever  kept  any  that 
had  to  do  with  her  early  life  she  had  destroyed  them  all 
before  her  death.  The  drawers  were  filled  chiefly  with 
little  mementoes  of  George's  own  childhood,  locks  of  hair, 
photographs,  early  attempts  at  writing  and  picture  making. 
Every  letter  he  had  ever  written  to  her  had  been  kept,  not 
one  destroyed,  and  they  formed  the  chief  part  of  the 
contents  of  the  few  drawers.  There  were  similar  memen- 
toes of  Peggy,  and  for  the  rest  only  account  books,  old 
cheques  and  counterfoils.  There  was  not  one  scrap  of 
paper  that  had  to  do  with  a  date  previous  to  the  taking  of 
the  cottage  at  Highgate,  and  George  closed  the  desk  at 
last  with  a  sigh  of  disappointment.  Her  absorbing  love  for 
him  was  made  manifest  by  the  contents  of  these  private 
receptacles ;  but  the  dead  voice  kept  its  secret  as  the  living 
voice  had  done,  and  left  him  unsatisfied. 

A  week  later  the  pretty  cottage  was  dismantled,  and 
Peggy  and  George  had  turned  their  backs  on  it  to  begin  a 
new  life  which,  whatever  happiness  might  be  in  store  for 
either  of  them,  would  always  hold  one  secret  place  of 
regretful  memory. 

Mr.  Richards  had  deigned  no  reply  to  George's  letter, 
and  when  George  said  good-bye  to  Peggy  at  the  Glasgow 
terminus,  he  entrusted  her  with  a  note  to  her  father 
announcing  the  hour  at  which  he  would  call  on  him  the 
following  morning.  Mr.  Richards  chose  to  receive  him  at 
his  private  house,  and  George  was  shown  into  a  poor  little 
room,  half  parlour,  half  dining  room,  where  his  prospective 
adversary  was  sitting  at  the  table  with  business  papers  and 
account  books  in  front  of  him.  It  was  never  very  difficult 
to  avoid  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Richards,  who  displayed 
little  inclination  for  the  lesser  amenities  of  life,  and  with  a 
brief  "  good  morning  "  George  plunged  into  the  middle  of 
things. 


930  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  prepared  me  a  statement  of  what  I 
wrote  to  you  about,"  he  said. 

"1  have  prepared  no  statement,"  replied  Mr.  Richards, 
*  But  I  can  show  you  Mrs.  Greenfield's  will,  and  can  tell 
you  the  exact  sum  which  I  shall  have  to  hand  over  to 
you  when  it  is  proved,  and  the  duty  and  so  on  is  paid. 
It  will  be  a  few  shillings  over  seven  hundred  and  forty 
pounds." 

"  Let  me  see  the  will  first,"  said  George. 

Mr.  Richards  handed  it  to  him,  and  he  read  it  over.  It 
was  very  short,  merely  mentioning  his  own  name  as  sole 
legatee,  and  that  of  Mr.  Richards  as  executor. 

"That  is  perfectly  clear,"  said  George,  and  the  two  of 
them  discussed  a  few  details  as  to  the  proving  of  the  will 
in  a  quiet,  matter-of-fact  tone. 

"  And  now,  Mr.  Richards,"  said  George,  "  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  explain  to  me  what  you  have  done  with 
the  bulk  of  my  mother's  property." 

The  words  in  themselves  were  an  insult  as  addressed  to 
an  honest  man,  and  George's  tone  did  not  take  off  from 
their  effect.  "  If  that  won't  rouse  you,"  it  seemed  to  say, 
"  nothing  will." 

But  the  challenge  did  not  rouse  Mr.  Richards.  The  red 
of  his  dark  face  grew  a  little  redder,  but  he  looked  his 
questioner  full  Jh  the  face,  and  if  he  felt  insulted  his  manner 
repelled  the  insult  no  less  effectively  than  if  he  had  met  it 
with  indignant  denial. 

"  I  told  you  two  years  ago        **  he  began. 

"  Oh,  you  told  me  a  pack  of  lies  two  years  ago,  about 
that  and  other  matters,"  interrupted  George  impatiently. 
"  I  want  the  truth  now,  and  I'm  going  to  get  it." 

"  You  are  not  going  the  right  way  to  get  it,"  returned 
Mr.  Richards,  still  speaking  quiet  and  evenly.  "  You  had 
better  listen  to  what  I've  got  to  say.** 


AT  CLOSE  QUARTERS.  231 

"You  don't  deny  having  lied  to  me  two  years  ago,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

**  I  don't  deny  anything,  or  admit  anything.  I  just  tell 
you  this,  that  there  are  certain  things  that  I  will  not  tell 
you  yet,  and  nothing  you  can  say  or  do  will  make  me." 

"  And  one  of  those  things,  I  suppose,  is  what  has  become 
of  a  sum  of  money  of  which  you  have  acted  as  trustee.  My 
knowledge  of  the  law  tells  me  that  there  will  not  be  the 
slightest  difficulty  in  extracting  that  piece  of  information 
from  you,  Mr.  Richards,  whatever  else  you  may  choose  to 
keep  to  yourself." 

"  There  was  no  sum  of  money.  Mrs.  Greenfield's  income 
died  with  her." 

u  The  income  must  have  come  from  a  sum  of  money  in 
the  first  instance.  You  don't  tell  me  that  there  was  an 
annuity.  Was  there  an  annuity  bought  for  her  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  where  did  her  income  come  from  ?  Good  heavens, 
man,  do  you  really  think  you  can  keep  silence  about  a 
thing  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  I'm  going  to." 

George  looked  at  him  in  sheer  amazement.  The  very 
audacity  of  the  statement  robbed  it  of  its  power  to  anger 
him  further.  He  found  himself  groping  in  his  mind  as  for 
the  explanation  of  a  puzzle.  Richards  kept  silence,  and 
suddenly  a  light  seemed  to  break  in  on  his  mind,  a  dis- 
agreeable suspicion  which  sent  the  blood  rushing  to  his 
temples. 

"  You  swore  to  me,"  he  said,  "  that  the  money  did  not 
come  from  you  yourself." 

"  You  accused  me  of  telling  you  a  pack  of  lies,"  was 
Richards's  reply,  spoken  slowly,  with  eyes  fixed  full  on  him, 

George  rose  from  his  seat.  "  Good  God  !  "  he  cried.  *'  Is 
that  the  truth?  Have  we  been  dependent  on  you' all  these 


23*  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

years  for  everything  ?  "  He  leaned  across  the  table.  "  Tell 
me,"  he  said,  "  You  shall  tell  me.  Was  my  mother — have 
I  been — dependent  on  your  bounty  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  nothing,"  came  the  steady  answer. 

George  seized  hold  of  the  will  which  lay  between  them 
on  the  table,  tore  it  in  half,  and  threw  the  pieces  into  the 
grate.  "  I  won't  take  a  penny  of  that  money,"  he  cried 
passionately,  "  and  I'll  work  till  I  drop  to  repay  what  we 
have  had  from  you." 

A  grim  smile  showed  itself  at  the  corners  of  Mr. 
Richards's  mouth.  "  Supposing  I  had  supplied  the  income," 
he  said,  "That  would  be  a  pretty  way  of  showing 
gratitude,  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"  Gratitude  !  "  echoed  George  fiercely.  "  But  wait  a 
minute,"  he  went  on,  collecting  his  thoughts.  "  You 
swore  to  me  that  it  was  not  so,  and  in  that  at  least  I 
believe  you  spoke  the  truth.  I  remember  your  manner. 
And — you  fool !  "  he  ended  abruptly,  with  a  scornful  stare. 

Mr.  Richards  looked  disconcerted  for  the  first  time. 

"  My  mother  told  me  herself — I  remember  it  now — that 
her  money  was  her  own  and  did  not  come  from  you.  And 
you  tried  to  make  me  believe — you  can  take  the  word 
coward  as  well  as  liar  from  me,  Mr.  Richards." 

Mr.  Richards  brushed  his  words  aside  with  a  movement 
of  his  hand.  "Let's  have  an  end  to  this,"  he  said. 
"  No,  the  income  did  not  come  from  me.  And  it's  waste  of 
time  for  you  to  make  any  further  guesses.  I  shall  neither 
deny  them  if  they  are  false,  nor  admit  them  if  they  are 
true.  I  say  again  as  I've  said  already,  I'll  tell  you 
nothing." 

"  And  you  are  prepared  to  go  into  a  court  of  law  with 
that  story  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  prepared  even  for  that." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see.     But  after  all,  the  money  is  not 


AT  CLOSE  QUARTERS.  233 

what  I  want  to  know  about.  If  that  were  all,  and  you 
would  assure  me — but  we'll  come  back  to  that  later.  Now, 
once  for  all,  what  are  the  facts  about  my  birth  ?  You  said 
the  other  night  that  you  were  the  only  man  alive  that 
knew  them.  You've  got  to  tell  me  what  you  know  now. 
I'll  have  no  more  mystery  about  it." 

Mr.  Richards  answered  him  at  once.  "  I'll  tell  you  every- 
thing I  mean  to  tell  you  straight  off,"  he  said,  "  and  that 
will  save  time,  for  I'll  tell  you  nothing  else.  When  we  had 
that  conversation  two  years  ago,  I  told  you  Mrs.  Green- 
field's husband,  the  man  you  saw  the  other  night,  was 
dead.  I  thought  he  was.  I  didn't  know  he  was  alive  till 
I  got  a  letter  from  her  telling  me  that  he  had  found  her 
out  and  was  persecuting  her.  She  didn't  want  you  to 
know,  naturally,  and  she  thought  I  might  be  able  to  help 
her.  She  told  me  he  was  coming  the  next  night  to  try  and 
get  a  large  sum  of  money  out  of  her,  and  she  asked  me  to 
send  it  to  her.  I  went  myself  instead,  and  that's  how  it 
was  I  got  there  just  in  time  to  frighten  him  off.  I  had 
found  out  something  that  I  could  have  got  him  sent  to 
prison  for,  at  the  time  I  told  you  of,  and  I'd  brought  the 
proofs  with  me.  If  I'd  had  any  difficulty  in  getting  rid  of 
him,  I — however,  he  went,  quick  enough." 

"Yes,  that's  all  very  interesting,"  interrupted  George, 
"  but  it  isn't  what  I  want  to  hear  about.  You  know  that 
well  enough.  You  told  me  that  that  wretched  creature 
was  my  father  the  last  time  you——" 

"  No,  I  never  told  you  that." 

*4Well,  you  gave  me  to  understand  it,  then,  perfectly 
plainly.  You're  very  particular  about  exact  words,  now, 
and  I  dare  say  you  saved  yourself  by  some  quibble  from 
telling  an  actual  lie  then.  But  you  deceived  me  all  the 
same.  You  don't  deny  that,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I've  told  you  already  I  deny  nothing  and  admit  nothing 


234  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

What  I  meant  to  keep  from  you  then  I  mean  to  keep  from 
you  now,  and  if  you'll  get  that  into  your  head  you'll  save 
yourself  a  lot  of  trouble." 

"  Will  you  swear  to  me  solemnly  that  that  man  wasn't 
my  father  ?  " 

"Yes,  I'll  swear  that  by  any  oath  you  like  to  name.  I 
shouldn't  have  told  you  so  the  last  time  you  asked  me. 
But  I  let  it  out  the  other  night  for  Mrs.  Greenfield's  sake, 
and  you're  welcome  now  to  any  consolation  it  brings  you." 
"  Thank  you.  Then  my  mother  was  married  before  she 
met  this  man  ?  " 

"That  I  shan't  tell  you." 
"  You  blackguard  !    You're  hinting——** 
"  No,  I'm  not.    Your  mother  was  one  of  the  best  women 
I've  ever  met,  and  I  respect  her  memory  as  much  as  you  do. 
I  simply  will  not  answer  one  single  question  that  I  don't 
choose  to,  and  if  you  like  to  draw  wrong  conclusions  from 
my  not  answering,  you've  got  yourself  to  thank  for  it.    I'll 
tell  you  this — I've  told  you  before  and  it's  all  I'll  tell  you—- 
that some  day  you'll  know." 

"  How  shall  I  know,  and  when  ?  ** 
"You'll  know  from  me.    When,  I  shan't  tell  you.** 
George  made  a  gesture,  almost  of  despair. 
**  If  you  knew  what  it  meant  to  me !  "   was  on  his  lips, 
but  he  would  not  address  even  that  plea  for  consideration 
to  his  adversary. 

"You'd  better  leave  it,"  continued  the  other.  "You 
won't  blame  me  for  keeping  it  back  when  I  do  tell  you.  I 
don't  care  if  you  do  or  not.  But  you  may  take  it  from  me 
that  you  won't." 

"  I'll  take  nothing  from  you,"  said  George,  now  at  the 
limit  of  his  patience,  "  except  the  truth.  And  I'll  tell  you 
this — that  if  you  don't  tell  me  now  what  I  ask  you,  I'll  go 
straight  out  of  this  house  and  put  the  whole  matter  into 


AT  CLOSE  QUARTERS.  335 

the  hands  of  a  lawyer.  You'll  be  made  to  tell  the  story  of 
the  money  you  have  had  in  trust,  at  any  rate,  and  I  dare  say 
we  shall  be  able  to  get  at  the  rest  through  that.  I  am  going 
to  know,  so  you'd  better  make  up  your  mind  whether  you'll 
tell  me  of  your  own  accord,  or  have  it  dragged  out  of  you 
in  a  court  of  law." 

"  You  can't  frighten  me  in  that  way,"  answered  Richards, 
still  speaking  in  firm,  even  tones.  "  I'll  tell  nothing  I  don't 
want  to,  either  to  you  or  to  anybody  else." 

"  You  say  so  now,  but  I  don't  think  you  quite  know  what 
you  are  in  for,  Mr.  Richards.  There's  one  thing  quite  cer- 
tain, and  that  is  that  you'll  give  an  account  of  your  trust, 
or  else  go  to  prison." 

"  Then  I'll  go  to  prison,  but  you'll  be  very  sorry  you 
were  the  means  of  sending  me  there  afterwards." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  be  put  off  any  longer  with  that 
sort  of  thing.  Are  you  going  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it 
now  ? " 

"  You've  had  my  answer." 

"  Very  well  then.  I'll  take  the  only  course  that's  open 
to  me." 

George  rose  and  took  up  his  hat  from  the  table.  There 
was  no  hesitation  in  his  actions.  Mr.  Richards  watched 
him  narrowly,  perhaps  for  a  sign  of  weakness,  but  he 
turned  to  leave  the  room  with  not  so  much  as  another 
look,  and  his  face  was  set. 

Mr.  Richards  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  speak,  but 
seemed  to  change  his  mind,  and  with  a  shrug  of  his 
shoulders  turned  to  the  papers  on  the  table  before  him. 

And  George  would  have  gone  away  with  nothing  further 
said  had  he  not  on  the  very  threshold  of  the  room  met 
Peggy,  who  had  just  entered  the  house.  She  was  in 
walking  dress  and  carried  some  small  parcels.  Perhaps 
her  father  had  sent  her  out  so  that  his  interview  with 


236  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

George  should  be  undisturbed.  At  any  rate,  the  look  of 
pleased  surprise  which  sprang  to  her  face  showed  that  she 
had  not  expected  to  see  him  at  that  time. 

"  Oh,  George,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hands,  *  I  am 
glad." 

Then  she  turned  her  eyes  from  him  to  her  father,  and 
back  again,  marked  the  tension  on  the  face  of  each,  and 
obeyed  the  impulse  which  came  to  her  both  to  ignore  and 
to  endeavour  to  relax  it. 

"Father  has  given  me  a  room  upstairs  for  my  own 
sitting-room,  and  I  am  to  furnish  it  as  I  please,"  she  said. 
**  I  am  going  to  be  ever  so  happy  here,  George." 

The  tears  rose  to  her  eyes  as  she  made  this  little  speech, 
so  courageous,  and  yet  so  pathetic.  She  turned  her  head 
away,  but  went  on  talking  bravely.  "  I  am  going  to  make 
father  take  me  about,"  she  said.  "  He  isn't  going  to  be 
allowed  to  spend  so  much  time  over  his  business  now.  He 
has  half  promised  to  take  me  to  the  Highlands  next 
summer.  You  will  do  it,  father,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  If  I'm  here,"  replied  Mr.  Richards. 

George  said  nothing,  but  his  face  was  perplexed. 

"  Have  you  finished  your  business  together  ?  Will  you 
come  up  and  see  my  room,  George  ?  "  said  Peggy. 

"I'll  come  now,"  George  replied.  "We  have  said  all 
there  is  to  say,"  and  he  went  out  before  her. 

George  returned  to  London  that  afternoon.  He  owned 
himself  beaten.  He  had  not  thought  of  Peggy  when  he 
had  threatened  her  father  with  exposure.  His  hands  were 
tied.  He  could  do  nothing  further. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  VOICE   FROM  THE   PAST. 

!  THE  Honourable  Robert  Conder,  M.P.,  in  pursuit  of  that 
experience  which  should  fit  him  by-and-by  to  uplift  his 
voice  to  fuller  purpose  in  the  conclaves  of  the  nation, 
shortly  after  the  close  of  the  session  set  out  on  a 
tour  round  the  colonies  and  dependencies  of  the  British 
Empire. 

The  whole  freckled  family  of  Conders,  with  the  exception 
of  his  mother,  journeyed  down  to  the  Docks  to  see  him  off, 
and  swarmed  over  the  great  ship  which  was  to  bear  him 
away  from  a  happy  and  united  home  to  the  uttermost  ends 
of  the  earth  ;  for  Bobby  Conder  had  already  "  done  "  India, 
and  did  not  propose  to  leave  the  vessel  until  he  should  set 
foot  in  one  of  the  colonies  of  Australasia. 

Lord  Conder,  as  became  a  man  of  his  standing,  got 
himself  introduced  by  a  Director  of  the  Line  to  one  who  in 
a  few  hours  would  be  a  far  greater  man  than  he  in  a  rather 
more  limited  sphere,  the  captain  of  the  ship.  Freddy 
Conder  found  a  friend  in  the  person  of  the  first  officer,  and 
he  and  Algy  Conder  retired  into  the  privacy  of  that 
functionary's  cabin  and  discussed  the  situation.  Dicky 
Conder  forced  his  friendship  on  an  assistant  sub-engineer, 
and  disappeared  from  view  until  all  but  the  passengers  and 
crew  had  left  the  ship,  and  he  had  already  been  given  up 
for  lost ;  while  the  feminine  contingent  of  the  Conder 
family  followed  Bobby  in  a  long  string  through  the  narrow 
and  perplexing  passages  which  led  to  the  various  saloons 


238  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

and  countless  cabins  of  the  great  sea-going  hotel,  and 
exclaimed  delightedly  at  all  they  saw. 

All  of  them  cried  unaffectedly,  and  the  twins  audibly,  as 
they  kissed  him  good-bye,  and  even  the  faces  of  the  male 
members  of  the  family  showed  less  of  their  usual  smiling 
roundness  as  they  stood  in  a  group  on  the  quay,  while 
Bobby,  leaning  over  the  side,  waved  an  intermittent  pocket- 
handkerchief  as  he  was  carried  farther  and  farther  out  of 
their  sight. 

Bobby  Conder  did  not  propose  to  be  away  for  more  than 
six  months  at  the  outside,  but  it  is  a  long  way  to  the  other 
side  of  the  world,  and  the  Conder  family  lived  in  such 
habitual  amity  and  contentment  with  each  other  that  they 
abhorred  separation  of  any  sort.  During  those  six  months 
he  was  never  spoken  of  in  the  house  as  "  Bobby,"  but 
always  as  "  Dear  Bobby,"  and  every  Sunday  evening  after 
dinner,  until  news  came  of  his  safe  arrival,  the  Conder 
family  with  their  numerous  dependents  and  any  guests  that 
might  be  staying  in  the  house,  assembled  together  in  the 
hall,  and  sang  the  "  Hymn  for  Those  at  Sea,"  which  Mary 
Conder  accompanied  on  the  organ  to  the  best  of  her  ability. 

In  due  course  Bobby  Conder  landed  in  Australia,  pre- 
sented his  letters  of  introduction,  and  proceeded  to  look 
about  him  with  an  eye  for  information.  He  found  the 
cities  and  their  inhabitants  so  disconcertingly  like  those  he 
had  left  behind  him  that  he  almost  despaired  of  picking  up 
matter  for  an  address  to  his  constituents,  but  took  courage 
when  he  left  the  beaten  tracks,  and,  as  he  really  did  know 
something  about  stock-breeding,  found  plenty  to  interest 
him  in  the  up-country  stations  at  which  he  was  generously 
entertained  during  a  month  of  the  Australian  spring. 

One  of  these  at  which  he  stayed  for  some  days  to 
examine  the  processes  of  sheep-shearing  and  the  packing 
of  wool  for  the  steamers  and  fast  sailing  clippers  which 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST.  239 

were  lying  in  Sydney  Harbour  ready  to  carry  it  to  the 
markets  of  Europe,  was  in  the  fertile  region  of  the  Murrum- 
bidgee.  The  owner  was  one  of  the  richest  squatters  in 
New  South  Wales,  and  Bobby  had  been  introduced  to  him 
after  a  dinner  at  Government  House,  when  he  had,  of 
course,  received  a  pressing  invitation  from  Mr.  Rawlings  to 
come  up  to  Nunderadgee  as  soon  as  he  was  able,  and  to 
consider  himself  at  home  there  as  long  as  he  liked  to  stay. 

The  squatter  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the  best  type  of 
native-born  Australian.  He  was  a  man  of  rather  more 
than  fifty,  very  tall  and  broad,  with  a  sun-tanned  face, 
honest  blue  eyes,  and  a  great  yellow  beard.  He  had  been 
at  an  English  public  school  and  an  English  university,  and 
was  as  well-travelled  and  well-educated  a  gentleman  as 
any  English  landowner.  He  had  married  rather  late  in 
life,  and  Bobby  found  his  fine  house,  built  on  the  banks  of 
the  river  in  the  immense  solitude  of  the  Bush,  full  of  young 
children,  the  easiest  in  the  world  to  make  friends  with,  the 
boys  showing  him  everything  there  was  to  show  about  the 
busy  life  of  the  station  with  an  immense  pride,  and  the 
girls  following  him  about  like  little  dogs,  loving  him  for 
his  happy  good  nature,  and  exhibiting  the  utmost  apprecia- 
tion of  his  jokes  and  stories.  Bobby  wrote  to  his  mother 
a  full  account  of  Nunderadgee  and  its  inhabitants,  in 
which  he  said  that  it  was  almost  as  good  as  being  at 
home,  the  highest  compliment  within  the  power  of  a 
member  of  the  Conder  family  to  bestow. 

And  "  Certainly  the  nicest  Englishman  we  have  ever  had 
with  us,"  was  Mrs.  Rawlings'  criticism  to  her  husband,  as, 
seated  in  the  deep-shaded  verandah,  she  watched  a  cluster 
of  sunny  little  heads  grouped  round  that  of  the  budding 
statesman,  who  was  fascinating  his  small  friends  with  a 
series  of  drawings  representing  the  various  incidents  of  a 
day  with  a  pack  of  hounds. 


240  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

Sitting  out  on  that  same  verandah  with  his  host,  a  few 
nights  after  his  arrival,  when  all  the  children  had  long 
since  gone  to  bed,  and  the  glorious  light  of  the  Southern 
moon  silvered  the  wide  stretches  of  park-like  country  lying 
before  them,  Bobby  Conder  listened  to  a  tale  of  the  early 
romances  of  the  settlers  in  this  fertile  country. 

"My  grandfather  was  a  working  stonemason  in  an 
English  village,"  said  this  lord  of  many  acres  in  his  quiet, 
well-bred  voice.  "Then  he  became  a  prison  warder,  and 
was  sent  out  to  Van  Diemen's  Land  with  a  ship- load  of 
convicts.  My  enemies,"  he  added  with  a  short  laugh, 
"will  tell  you  that  he  was  a  convict  himself,  but  that 
doesn't  happen  to  be  true.  He  was  a  thrifty  man  with  a 
managing  wife.  I  have  pictures  of  both  of  them,  bad 
enough,  painted  after  they  had  begun  to  succeed.  They 
saved  money,  and  he  took  up  land  at  a  time  when  it  could 
be  got  for  the  asking.  They  bought  sheep,  took  up  more 
land  and  bought  more  sheep,  and  he  died  a  rich  man.  My 
father  succeeded  him.  He  was  never  out  of  the  colony  in 
his  life.  He  built  this  house,  or  most  of  it.  It  was  the 
first  big  country  station,  and  was  considered  a  marvel  in 
those  days,  though  there  are  plenty  to  beat  it  now,  even 
with  my  additions.  I  am  the  sole  descendant  of  the  old 
Cumberland  stonemason,  and  I  reap  the  benefit  of  his 
thrift  and  foresight." 

"Cumberland?"  said  Bobby  Conder.  "What  part  of 
Cumberland  ?  " 

"  He  came  from  a  village  called  Morthwaite,  in  the  Lake 
country.  I  made  a  pilgrimage  the  last  time  I  went  home,  and 
saw  the  little  white- washed  cottage  where  he  was  born." 

"  Morthwaite  1  "  exclaimed  Bobby.  "  Why,  that  is  where 
Merrilees  is." 

"  What  do  you  know  of  Merrilees  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Rawlings, 
turning  his  head  towards  him. 


A  VOICE  FROM   THE   PAST.  341 

"  All  the  world  knows  something  about  Merrilees  now,  I 
suppose,"  said  Bobby  with  a  smile.  "  I  happen  to  know  a 
little  more  than  most  people,  because,  although  I've  never 
been  there,  it  belongs  to  a  fellow  I've  known  all  my  life, 
and  an  uncle  of  mine  is  living  in  it  at  the  present 
moment." 

"  Why  isn't  your  friend  living  in  it  ?  ** 

"Because  he  can't  afford  it.  Didn't  you  get  the  story 
out  here — about  the  last  man  shutting  himself  up  there  for 
five-and-twenty  years  and  turning  a  great  fortune  into 
jewels,  which  a  rascal  of  a  servant  walked  off  with  directly 
the  breath  was  out  of  his  body  ?  " 

"  The  story  of  Sir  Roderick  Bertram.  Yes,  we  heard  all 
that.  He  was  living  there  when  I  went  over  to  Mor- 
thwaite.  I  must  confess  that  I  did  a  little  trespassing  and 
got  a  glimpse  of  the  place  from  the  shore  of  the  lake.  I 
was  specially  interested  in  it.  But  who  is  your  friend  to 
whom  you  say  it  belongs  now  ?  " 

"  He  is  Guy  Bertram,  the  last  man's  heir — a  cousin,  I  think. 
He  came  in  for  the  place,  and  everything  else  he  could  find. 
But  the  fact  is,  he  didn't  find  much,  because,  as  you  know, 
a  thief  had  already  been  at  work." 

"  Mr.  Conder,  I  think  you  are  the  man,"  said  the  squatter 
solemnly,  rising  to  his  full  height  of  six-foot-three. 

"  Good  God !  "  exclaimed  the  astonished  Bobby. 

Mr.  Rawlings  gave  a  great  deep- lunged  laugh. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "  I  meant  something  rather 
different.  I  think  I  shall  now  be  able  to  fulfil  a  very  old 
trust.  If  you  will  excuse  me  for  a  minute  I  will  go  and 
get  some  papers  out  of  my  room." 

He  went  into  the  house,  leaving  the  astonished  Bobby 
meditatively  sipping  from  a  long  glass. 

Mr.  Rawlings  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  bringing  with 
him  a  lamp  which  he  placed  on  the  table  between  them, 

H.M.  * 


242  THE   HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

although  the  light  of  the  full  moon  was  almost  bright 
enough  to  have  made  artificial  light  unnecessary.  He  sat 
down  and  produced  a  folded  paper,  sealed  with  an  old- 
fashioned  common  seal,  and  another  paper  out  of  a  large 
docketed  envelope. 

"  My  grandfather,"  he  said,  "  was  one  of  the  workmen 
employed  to  rebuild  the  house  of  Merrilees  for  Sir  Michael 
Bertram,  and  to  construct  those  wonderful  cascades  of  which 
you  have  heard,  and  which  I  have  seen.  I  remember  the 
old  man  well.  He  lived  to  a  great  age,  and  often  talked 
to  me  of  his  early  years,  and  especially  of  the  building  of 
that  great  house,  which  seemed  to  have  excited  his  imagi- 
nation, and  was  indeed  very  different  from  anything  he 
could  have  seen  during  the  last  fifty  years  of  his  life.  It 
excited  my  youthful  imagination,  too,  and  when  I  did  see 
it  from  a  distance,  after  many  years,  it  was  like  looking  at 
a  fairy  palace  of  which  one  had  been  told  in  childhood, 
but  never  thought  of  as  having  any  real  existence. 

"  Well,  the  old  man  always  spoke  of  the  house  as  having 
some  mysterious  secret,  which,  as  far  as  I  remember,  had 
to  be  divulged  to  a  few  of  the  workmen  employed  there, 
of  whom  he  was  one.  All  of  these  were  under  oath  not  to 
reveal  it.  But  the  possession  of  the  secret  troubled  my 
grandfather,  who  was  a  simple-minded  old  man  and  loved 
straightforward  ways. 

"  At  last,  as  I  was  leaving  to  go  to  school  for  the  first 
time,  he  called  me  to  him — it  was  in  a  room  of  the  old 
log-built  house  which  stood  where  this  is  now.  He  was 
very  old  then,  and  I  remember  he  cried  over  me — poor, 
white-haired  old  fellow — and  said  that  we  should  never  see 
each  other  again.  He  was  very  fond  of  me  as  a  boy,  and 
very  good  to  me,  and  the  first  news  I  got  when  I  landed  in 
England  was  that  of  his  death.  He  gave  me  these  papers, 
and  said  he  trusted  me  not  to  lose  them,  or  to  show  them 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PA$T.  843 

to  anybody.  This,"  holding  out  the  loose  sheet,  "  contains 
practically  what  he  told  me  by  word  of  mouth,  and  I  think 
the  time  has  come  for  me  to  fulfil  his  wishes.  It  is,  I 
suppose,  nearly  a  hundred  )'ears  since  Merrilees  was  built ; 
and  I  do  not  consider  myself  bound  by  the  old  man's  oath 
of  secrecy.  Nor,  I  suppose,  did  he,  after  he  should  be  dead. 
This  is  what  he  has  written : — 

"  '  To  my  grandson,  John  Rawlings,  of  Nunderadgee,  in 

the  colony  of  New  South  Wales. 

**  *  I  trust  to  your  keeping  the  sealed  paper  marked 
"  Merrilees  "  enclosed  in  this,  which  you  are  not  to  open.  If 
you  hear  of  any  trouble  coming  to  the  family  of  Bertram, 
or  to  any  family,  through  something  strange  about  the 
house  of  Merrilees,  at  Morthwaite  in  Cumberland,  you  shall 
hand  the  sealed  paper  unopened  to  the  master  of  that  house, 
or  give  it  to  a  friend  of  his  to  be  delivered  to  him.  The 
paper  must  not  be  sent  through  the  mail,  but  given  by  your 
hands.  If  you  hear  of  nothing,  you  shall  entrust  the  sealed 
paper  to  your  son  with  these  directions,  and  he  shall  entrust 
it  to  his  son,  and  so  on,  from  father  to  son.  No  one  but  the 
master  of  the  house  of  Merrilees  is  to  break  the  seaL 

*"JOHN  RAWLINGS. 

"'June  29th,  18— ."* 

He  handed  the  paper  to  Bobby,  who  looked  with  interest 
at  the  crabbed  but  neat  writing  of  the  old  settler,  long 
since  laid  in  his  grave. 

"  I  have  had  the  paper  by  me  ever  since,"  continued  Mr. 
Rawlings,  "and  must  confess  that  I  had  forgotten  all  about 
it  until  1  read  of  what  happened  at  Merrilees  last  June. 
Then  I  made  up  my  mind  that,  if  matters  were  not  cleared 
up  by  the  time  I  go  home  next  year,  I  would  take  the 
paper  home  with  me  and  hand  it  over  to  Sir  Roderick's 
successor.  I  did  not  suppose,  however,  that  what  had 

ft  a 


944  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

happened  could  really  have  anything  to  do  with  my  old 
grandfather's  secret,  so  I  did  not  bother  myself  to  look 
out  for  any  friend  of  the  family  to  whom  I  could  entrust  it, 
as  I  perhaps  should  have  done.  But  now  you  have  come 
along  I  can  wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  affair,  and  you 
can  give  the  paper  to  your  friend  for  what  it  is  worth. 
Only  you  mustn't  send  it  by  mail.  That,  as  you  see,  is  a 
stipulation." 

"  Well,  if  this  helps  my  friend  Bertram  to  get  back  his 
fortune,"  said  Bobby,  *'he  will  have  something  to  thank 
you  for." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  can  be,"  said  the  squatter.  "  That 
seems  to  me  a  clear  case  of  successful  theft.  It  might 
perhaps  help  him  to — but  we  will  make  no  conjectures.  I 
should  like  to  hear  the  result  of  your  commission,  though, 
if  anything  comes  of  it.  And  now  I  think  we  had  better  go 
to  bed." 

If  Bobby  Conder  had  been  returning  home  when  he 
received  that  paper  a  good  deal  of  further  anxiety  might 
have  been  saved  to  more  than  one  of  his  friends.  But  he 
was  only  at  the  beginning  of  his  travels  overseas,  and  the 
little  sealed  packet  was  carried  in  his  despatch  box,  along 
with  his  own  invaluable  notes  and  comments  on  things  in 
general,  through  New  Zealand,  Japan,  the  South  Pacific 
Islands,  and  the  Dominion  of  Canada,  before  in  the  follow- 
ing spring  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  Guy  Bertram. 

When  Guy  Bertram  returned  to  London  after  his  inter- 
view with  Peggy's  father,  he  was  at  first  as  miserable  and 
unhappy  a  young  man  as  it  would  have  been  possible  to 
find  anywhere.  His  longing  for  Peggy  was  increased  by 
the  apparently  insuperable  obstacle  that  had  been  put  in  the 
way  of  his  winning  her.  He  was  again  inclined  to  curse  his 
folly  in  binding  himself  by  his  own  promise  in  a  way  that 


A  VOICE  FROM   THE   PAST.  245 

no  commands  or  even  threats  directed  against  himself  could 
have  bound  him.  But  on  thinking  the  matter  over,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Mr.  Richards  had  held  the 
winning  cards  in  any  case,  and  that  the  only  grain  of  con- 
solation in  the  whole  unhappy  affair  was  that  he  had  saved 
Peggy  by  so  binding  himself  from  coercion,  which,  if  it  had 
been  practised,  he  himself  would  have  been  responsible  in 
bringing  upon  her,  and  which  he  could  have  done  nothing 
to  alleviate.  After  all,  she  was  still  under  age,  and  her 
father  had  the  right  for  some  time  yet,  however  arbitrarily 
he  might  exercise  it,  to  refuse  his  consent  to  her  marriage 
with  anyone  of  whom  he  disapproved. 

But  at  first  Guy  was  inconsolable.  None  of  the  pursuits 
by  the  help  of  which  he  had  hitherto  lived  a  pleasant  and 
contented  life  now  afforded  him  the  slightest  solace.  He 
allowed  the  building  of  his  cottage  to  go  on  because  he 
was  too  much  occupied  with  the  bitterness  of  his  lot  to  stop 
it ;  but  all  interest  in  his  project  had  deserted  him  for  the 
present,  and  the  bare  idea  of  going  down  to  see  a  place 
where  he  had  begun  to  hope  that  he  and  Peggy  would  live 
happily  together  was  painful  to  him. 

At  first  he  thought  of  going  right  away  from  England 
for  a  long  time.  He  would  go  somewhere  and  shoot  big 
game,  or  he  would  go  and  explore.  But  he  took  no  steps 
to  put  either  of  these  ideas  into  practice.  He  had  not  the 
slightest  genuine  desire  to  shoot  game  either  big  or  small, 
or  indeed,  anything  else,  except  occasionally  himself,  and  as 
for  exploring,  his  geography  was  too  weak  to  lend  the  least 
trace  of  reality  to  the  project. 

With  regard  to  the  recovery  of  his  stolen  fortune,  he  was 
sometimes  surprised  to  find  how  little  he  hoped  for  it, 
or  indeed  how  small  a  place  it  filled  in  his  thoughts.  The 
weeks  had  gone  by  and  no  trace  of  the  missing  jewels  had 
come  to  light.  Even  the  clue  to  Lady  Bertram's  burial 


246  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

place,  which  might  or  might  not  have  led  to  something, 
had  been  lost.  Having  nothing  better  to  do,  he  had  gone 
down  to  Calthorp's  office  a  few  days  after  his  return  from 
Glasgow,  to  make  inquiries.  Calthorp  was  away  on  a 
holiday,  but  his  partner  had  told  Guy  that  all  attempts 
to  follow  the  journey  of  Sir  Roderick  with  the  body  of  his 
wife  had  so  far  failed.  The  statement  that  he  was  on  his 
way  to  his  yacht  had  apparently  no  further  foundation 
than  rumour  current  at  the  time,  and  it  could  not  be  dis- 
covered that  he  had  possessed  a  yacht  at  the  time,  or  even 
that  he  had  hired  one. 

"  I  never  thought  much  of  that  quest,  Sir  Guy,"  said 
Mr.  Griffin,  Calthorp's  senior  partner,  "  and  now  it  has 
ended  in  smoke.  We  must  wait,  I  think,  till  the  thieves 
attempt  to  put  the  jewels  on  the  market,  and  even  then  I'm 
afraid — well,  it's  no  good  disguising  the  fact  that  big  jewels 
can  be  cut  up  into  small  ones,  and  that  whatever  loss  might 
be  sustained  by  doing  so  in  this  instance  would  be  made  up 
for  by  the  great  value  of  the  booty  and  the  additional 
safety  that  would  come  from  following  that  course." 

This  argument  was  incontrovertible,  and  Guy  went 
away  with  whatever  dreams  he  may  have  cherished  of 
wealth  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice  fading  to  the 
vanishing  point. 

"  And  if  I  did  get  them  back,"  he  said  to  himself  dis- 
consolately, as  he  made  his  way  westward,  "  I  don't  believe 
it  would  make  any  difference.  The  man  is  such  a  beast." 

When  he  had  mooned  aimlessly  about  the  streets  of 
London  for  a  week,  and  the  need  of  a  definite  object  in  life 
began  to  assert  itself,  the  idea  of  working  very  seriously 
and  steadily  at  his  painting  presented  itself  and  grew  upon 
him.  He  would  forsake  the  idle,  pleasant  paths  which  had 
beguiled  him  of  late  years  from  frs  once  formed  purpose, 
and  take  the  hard  high  road  which  would  lead  him  to  fame, 


A  VOICE   FROM   THE  PAST.  247 

fame  which  would  after  all  be  valueless  to  him  since  he  had 
no  one  with  whom  to  share  it.  But  it  was  not  the  fame, 
he  told  himself,  that  he  cared  about  now.  It  was  the  dis- 
cipline of  hard  work,  and  perhaps  a  little  of  the  comfort 
that  would  come  from  the  fact  that  Peggy  would  hear 
of  his  career,  and  would  remember  that  on  that  Sunday 
afternoon,  which  would  bring  bitter-sweet  memories  to  both 
of  them  in  after  years,  she  had  believed  in  a  possible 
career  for  him,  when  he  had  ceased  to  believe  in  it  him- 
self. And  when  his  thoughts  had  brought  him  to  this 
point  they  brightened  still  further,  for  what  objections 
could  any  father  make  against  one  who  was  by  act  of 
Providence  a  rich  man  and  a  baronet,  and  by  his  own 
a  great  artist  ? 

The  hard  road  might  after  all  lead  him  to  where  Peggy 
was  waiting  for  him,  and  at  length,  somewhat  encouraged 
by  his  musings,  Guy  packed  up  all  the  paraphernalia  of  an 
embryo  academician  and  betook  himself  to  Norway.  And 
as  it  was  Norway  he  had  hit  upon  for  the  exercise  of  his 
talents,  he  added  to  his  impedimenta  one  or  two  trout 
rods  and  a  sufficiency  of  tackle. 

After  a  month's  excellent  fishing  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Gudvangen — for  he  had  chanced  on  some  friends  on  his 
way  across  and  been  persuaded  to  join  them  in  renting 
a  piece  of  water — Guy  returned  to  England,  having  some- 
what worn  down  the  edge  of  his  disappointment.  The 
time  had  arrived  for  the  usual  series  of  country-house  visits, 
and,  although  he  had  intended  to  refuse  all  such  invitations 
for  the  future  and  to  devote  himself  to  the  earnest  study  of 
his  art,  he  found  it  difficult  to  break  away  altogether  from 
the  old  and  sufficiently  agreeable  routine,  and  so  made 
arrangements,  for  each  one  of  which  there  was  a  special 
reason,  which  would  keep  him  occupied  pretty  well  until 
Christmas.  There  would  be  time  to  settle  down  to  hard 


248  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

work  after  the  festive  season  had  gone  by,  when  the  New 
Year  should  revive  the  old  desires. 

He  was  in  London  for  a  few  days  about  the  beginning  of 
October  when  he  ran  against  George  Greenfield,  who, 
dressed  in  deep  mourning,  was  striding  along  Pall  Mall. 
George  stopped  and  shook  hands  with  him,  with  a  very 
faint  shadow  of  his  usual  friendly  smile.  Guy's  disturbed^ 
inquiring  face,  more  than  the  half-formed  question  that 
hung  on  his  lips,  told  him  that  he  had  not  heard  the  news 
of  Mrs.  Greenfield's  death. 

"  My  mother,"  said  George  gravely.  "  She  died  a  fort- 
night ago,  after  a  very  short  illness." 

Guy  turned  and  walked  with  him,  stammering  out  his 
astonishment  and  sympathy. 

"  And  Miss  Richards  ?  "  he  asked  presently,  when  George 
had  told  him  in  a  few  words  what  there  was  to  tell. 

"  She  has  gone  up  to  Glasgow  to  live  with  her  father," 
said  George  shortly.  "  The  poor  little  place  up  at  High- 
gate  is  to  be  let.  I  was  brought  up  in  it.  I  shall  never 
go  there  again." 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  up  to  my  rooms  for  a  moment, 
George,"  said  Guy,  when  they  had  reached  the  corner  of 
St.  James's  Street.  "  I've  got  something  to  say  to  you." 

George  cast  a  quick  glance  at  him. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  and  they  went  up  together. 

George  threw  himself  into  an  armchair  by  the  window, 
while  Guy  paced  the  room  with  his  eyes  on  the  floor. 

"I  don't  know  whether  Peggy  has  told  you  anything 
about  me,"  he  said,  coming  to  a  stop  in  front  of  his  friend. 

"  She  has,"  said  George.  "  I  don't  know  whether  she 
would  have  done  so  if  my  mother  had  lived ;  but,  as  it  is, 
poor  child,  I'm  about  the  only  friend  she's  got  left.  Unless 
you  can  count  her  father  1 "  he  added,  with  extraordinary 
bitterness. 


A  VOICE  FROM   THE   PAST.  249 

"  What  does  she  think,  what  must  she  think  of  me  for 
leaving  her,  without  a  word,  as  I  did  ?  "  cried  Guy,  all  the 
pain  of  those  days,  the  memory  of  which  he  had  been  doing 
his  best  to  drown,  coming  back  to  him  with  a  rush. 

"  Well,  she  thinks  that  that  most  attractive  gentleman, 
her  father — damn  him — found  some  way  of  influencing  you 
to  make  you  give  her  up.  She  also  thinks,  if  I  judge  her 
rightly,  that  you  ought  not  to  have  let  him  influence  you 
in  that  way  after  what  you  had  said  to  her.  And  I  don't 
know  that  I  don't  agree  with  her." 

He  spoke  rather  brutally.  His  whole  appearance  had 
undergone  a  change  since  Guy  had  last  seen  him.  His 
straightforward,  decisive,  but  always  frank  and  prepossess- 
ing manner  had  given  pb?ce  to  something  more  aggressive, 
even  overbearing.  He  looked  much  older.  His  strength 
of  mind  and  body  was  still  apparent,  but  its  spring  and 
grace  had  disappeared.  He  was  not  yet  twenty-five, 
but  his  youth  seemed  to  have  dropped  away  from  him 
already. 

"Look  here,  George,"  said  Guy,  now  on  the  defensive. 
"  What  was  I  to  do  ?  If  I  had  refused  to  give  him  a 
definite  promise  not  to  go  near  her  again,  or  even  to  write 
and  bid  her  good-bye,  he  swore  he  would  take  her  away 
from  your  mother  at  once." 

"  Yes,  and  he  would  have  done  it  too,"  said  George. 

"Very  well,  then.  I  should  have  been  a  nice  sort  of 
fellow  if  I  had  helped  to  make  her  miserable  in  that  way, 
shouldn't  I  ?  And  your  mother  too.  And  what  good 
would  it  have  done  either  of  us  ?  " 

"  WThat  you  did  sounds  generous,  I  know ;  and  I've  no 
doubt  it  was  meant  generously.  But — I  won't  mince 
matters — it  seems  to  me  weak.  And  I  think  Peggy  ought 
to  have  been  consulted.  She  is  absolutely  loyal  and  brave. 
He  wouldn't  have  had  it  all  his  own  way  by  any  means." 


250  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

Guy  had  thrown  himself  into  a  chair.  He  found  no 
reply  to  this  indictment,  but  he  looked  extremely  depressed. 

"  I'm  hanged  if  I  would  have  given  up  as  easily  as  that 
a  girl  who  had  told  me  she  loved  me,"  George  went  on 
after  a  pause,  "  especially  such  a  girl  as  Peggy,  who  would 
go  through  fire  and  water  for  any  one  to  whom  she  had 
given  her  heart.  However,  I'm  not  going  to  quarrel  with 
you  about  it.  I've  no  doubt  you  love  my  little  sister  truly, 
and  I  wish  you  could  marry  her.  What  objection  had  that 
fellow  to  you  ?  " 

"  He  seemed  to  think  that  I  was  a  worthless  member  of 
society,  because  I  had  never  had  to  earn  my  living." 

"  That's  nonsense,"  said  George.  "  He  has  got  some 
other  reason.  He  couldn't  give  you  a  straight  answer  if  he 
tried.  He  lies  for  the  sake  of  it.  I  suppose  there  are  no 
secrets  in  your  life  that  he  can  have  got  hold  of,  and  be 
working  for  his  own  ends  ?  " 

"  There  are  no  secrets  in  my  life." 

**  Well,  then,  my  advice  to  you  is  to  hang  on  till  Peggy 
is  of  age,  and  then  to  marry  her  with  his  leave  or  without 
it.  She  wants  you,  poor  child,  and  when  the  time  comes, 
I'll  do  all  I  can  to  help  you." 

Guy's  face  brightened  wonderfully. 

"You  are  a  good  chap,  George,"  he  said.  "You  have 
put  life  into  me.  And  you  will  tell  her,  won't  you,  that  it 
was  for  her  sake  I  made  that  promise  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  she  knows  that.  She  is  not  likely  to 
think  it  was  for  your  own.  However,  I'll  tell  her.  And 
now  I  must  be  going." 


CHAPTER  XX 

LORD   CARADOC   TAKES   ADVICE. 

LORD  CARADOC  did  not  take  long  to  throw  off  the  indis- 
position resulting  from  the  unusual  strain  to  which  he  had 
subjected  himself  during  the  past  weeks.  Intellectual  work 
had  been  a  constant  stimulus  and  gratification  to  him  ever 
since  he  had  been  able  to  read  a  page  and  hold  a  pen,  and 
an  occasional  surfeit  of  it  did  him  no  harm.  Indeed,  when 
he  had  once  recovered  from  his  brain  fatigue,  he  returned 
with  renewed  zest  to  the  work  he  had  had  on  hand  before 
his  great  discovery. 

He  found,  however,  that  he  could  not  detach  his  mind 
from  the  inspiring,  and  to  him  most  momentous  events  of 
the  past  month.  He  would  rise  from  the  table  at  which  he 
sat  to  write  in  the  great  library  and  go  into  the  smaller 
inner  room,  entering  it  with  a  feeling  almost  of  religious 
awe.  He  would  look  at  the  table  where  the  dead  man 
had  done  such  laborious  and  such  brilliant  work  for  so 
many  long  years.  It  was  almost  as  sacred  to  him  as  an 
altar,  and  he  would  have  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  using  it 
for  the  common  purposes  of  everyday  life.  The  books 
ranged  round  the  room  he  regarded  in  the  light  of  rough 
ore  which  the  workings  of  a  master  mind  had  transformed 
into  pure  gold.  The  cabinet  in  which  he  had  found  the 
precious  papers  he  would  have  bought  at  Christie's  for 
thrice  its  value,  and  that  would  have  been  no  mean  one. 
He  would  turn  over  in  his  mind  the  daily  delights  and 
discoveries  which  he  had  experienced  during  those  golden 


25a  THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

weeks  as  a  gourmet  recalls  the  taste  of  fine  wines.  He 
associated  George  with  this  rare  succession  of  intellectual 
pleasures,  and  found  himself  missing  his  companionship 
every  hour  of  the  day.  A  genuine  respect  for  each  other's 
talents  had  arisen  and  increased  in  the  minds  of  the  old 
and  the  young  man,  and  community  of  interests,  and — 
balancing  the  fruits  of  long  experience  and  mellowed 
judgment  on  the  one  hand  against  a  more  practical  outlook 
on  life  on  the  other — equality  of  intellect,  had  aroused  a 
feeling  of  something  like  affection  between  them. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  the  old  scholar  made  up  his 
mind  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  profitable  work  that 
he  and  George  might  still  do  together,  and  on  the  second 
morning  after  his  recovery  he  sat  down  at  the  table  where 
he  conducted  that  small  proportion  of  his  correspondence 
which  he  did  not  entirely  neglect,  to  write  him  a  pressing 
invitation  to  return  to  Merrilees  forthwith. 

He  dated  his  paper  and  began,  "  My  dear  Mr.  Green- 
field." Then  he  paused  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
and  after  a  few  minutes'  consideration  rose  and  walked 
to  the  nearest  window,  where  he  stood  looking  out  with 
unseeing  eyes  over  the  stretch  of  water  and  woodland 
lying  below  him. 

There  were  reasons  why  he  could  not  ask  his  dear  Mr. 
Greenfield  to  come  to  Merrilees  just  at  present.  They  had 
escaped  his  memory  until  this  moment,  but  none  the  less 
they  existed,  and  existed  on  the  plane  of  actual  life,  upon 
which  Lord  Caradoc  trod  as  seldom  as  possible. 

This  young  man  to  whom  he  had  been  about  to  write 
wished  to  marry  his,  Lord  Caradoc's,  daughter.  Young 
men  did  sometimes  wish  to  marry  the  daughters  of  older 
men,  he  remembered.  The  fact  added  another  complication 
to  the  many  that  beset  the  simplest  possible  scheme  of 
existence,  but  still,  there  it  was,  and  it  must  be  accepted. 


LORD   CARADOC  TAKES  ADVICE.        253 

In  this  instance  such  an  arrangement  would  appear  to  have 
been  the  suggestion  of  a  beneficent  Providence,  but  if  he 
could  recall  the  conversation  they  had  held  together  on  the 
subject  he  felt  sure  he  should  remember  that  there  had  been 
some  reason,  or  reasons,  against  it.  He  called  up  before 
the  eyes  of  his  mind  the  image  of  the  suitor.  Sound  views, 
sound  and  for  his  age  ripe  judgment,  a  capacity  for  work 
as  great  as  his  own,  enthusiasm  for  constructive  criticism 
most  creditable  in  one  so  young,  with  other  attainments, 
likely  to  lead  him  far — what  could  there  be  against  such  a 
man?  The  image  of  George  stood  down,  honourably 
acquitted  of  all  blame. 

Lord  Caradoc  turned  his  thoughts  toward  his  daughter. 
He  must  have  expected  her  to  marry  some  time  or  other. 
What  sort  of  suitor  could  he  hope  would  come  forward  for 
her  ?  A  turn  of  memory  brought  back  to  him  his  own 
words,  spoken  on  that  night  when  his  brain  had  been 
singularly  luminous,  and  he  had  exercised  it  just  before  its 
temporary  breakdown  on  this  very  question. 

"  Of  unblemished  birth."  That  had  been  the  stipulation 
he  had  made,  which  this  young  man,  in  other  respects  so 
much  after  his  own  heart,  could  only  meet  with  an  avowal 
of  ignorance.  Lord  Caradoc  shook  his  grizzled  head. 
Certainly  there  could  be  no  giving  way  on  a  point  of  such 
importance. 

He  mused  a  little  longer.  Perhaps  the  young  man  would 
bring  him  news  that  would  set  his  mind  at  rest.  He  hoped 
— yes,  now  he  definitely  hoped — that  it  might  be  so.  Then 
he  went  back  to  his  writing  table  and  tore  up  the  letter  he 
had  begun  to  write. 

Mrs.  Herbert  and  Cicely  were  sitting  on  one  of  the  lower 
terraces  on  this  fine  September  morning,  the  older  lady  at 
work  on  something  very  plain  and  very  useful  for  the 
benefit  of  one  of  the  Morthwaite  villagers,  whom  she  had 


«54  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

taken  individually  and  collectively  under  her  wing. 
Although  small,  the  village  of  Morthwaite  provided  a  fertile 
field  for  charitable  enterprise.  The  vicar  was  a  widower, 
devoted  to  the  rearing  and  exhibition  of  poultry,  and  no 
lady  in  his  own  position  of  life  had  entered  his  house  for 
twenty  years.  And  the  house  of  Merrilees  for  a  longer 
period  than  that  had  held  itself  silently  aloof.  Cicely  was 
sitting  with  a  book  in  her  lap,  sometimes  talking  to  her 
friend,  sometimes  dreaming. 

•'  I  wonder  we  have  not  heard  from  Mr.  Greenfield,"  Mrs. 
Herbert  was  saying.  "  It  is  getting  on  for  a  week  since  he 
left  us.  I  hope  the  telegram  that  called  him  home  meant 
nothing  serious." 

She  had  said  much  the  same  thing  two  or  three  times  a  day 
since  George  had  left.  It  was  simply  a  formula  for  opening 
a  conversation  which  might  of  itself  lead  to  some  topic  of 
interest  without  the  trouble  of  starting  one. 

"  I  expect  he  would  have  let  us  know  if  there  had  been 
anything  serious,"  answered  Cicely.  She  had  said  the  same 
thing  before,  and  said  it  again  now  with  no  particular 
mental  effort. 

"  Lord  Caradoc  says  that  he  never  met  so  young  a  man 
with  such  a  grasp  of  his  subject,"  observed  Mrs.  Herbert. 

The  conversation,  then,  was  to  be  about  George,  and  not 
on  the  subject  of  alarming  telegrams  preparing  the  way  for 
sad  news. 

"  He  is  very  nice,"  was  the  girl's  reply. 

So  far,  they  had  ploughed  an  old  furrow.  Mrs.  Herbert 
now  broke  new  ground. 

"  His  history  interests  me,"  she  said.  "  His  father  died,  I 
think,  before  he  was  born,  and  he  was  brought  up  entirely 
by  his  mother.  A  fine  woman,  I  feel  sure,  from  what  he  has 
told  me  of  her,  and  he  seems  to  be  devoted  to  her.  They 
are,  I  should  think,  not  at  all  well  off,  but  Mr.  Greenfield 


LORD   CARADOC   TAKES  ADVICE.        255 

has  made  his  own  way  entirely,  and  with  his  exceptional 
abilities,  no  doubt  there  is  a  fine  career  before  him." 

"  He  told  me  about  his  sister,"  said  Cicely.  "  He  is  very 
fond  of  her,  too," 

"She  is  not  his  own  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  "although 
they  were  brought  up  together.  And  she  is  some  years 
younger." 

"  I  saw  her  at  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  cricket  match,'* 
said  Cicely,  "  with  Mr.  Greenfield.  Sir  Guy  Bertram  spoke 
to  them.  I  thought,"  she  added  slowly,  "  that  she  was  very 
pretty." 

"  Sir  Guy  Bertram  thinks  so,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert, 
with  intention.  "  I  gathered  as  much  as  that " 

Cicely  was  silent.  She  had  gathered  as  much,  too,  for 
Guy  had  told  her  of  George,  and  of  George's  home  and  of 
his  mother  and  sister,  when  it  was  first  arranged  that  he 
should  come  to  Merrilees.  And  he  had  said  rather  more  of 
George's  sister  than  her  connection  with  George's  scholarly 
acquirements  warranted. 

"  Ah,  here  comes  James  with  the  letters,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Herbert,  rolling  up  her  work.  "  Now  perhaps  we  shall  hear 
something  of  how  the  outside  world  is  going  on." 

A  boat  was  rounding  the  western  cape.  The  man  who 
rowed  it  made  fast  to  the  lowest  stair,  and  came  up  the 
terraces  towards  them,  carrying  a  postbag  over  his  shoulder. 
He  dealt  out  a  few  letters  to  Mrs.  Herbert  and  a  packet  of 
illustrated  papers  to  Cicely,  and  went  on  his  way  with  the 
rest  of  his  burden,  mounting  to  the  great  white  house 
above  them. 

"  One  from  Mr.  Greenfield  at  last,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Herbert.  "  The  rest  are  business  letters,  I  can  see." 

She  broke  open  the  square  envelope  addressed  to  her  in  a 
firm  scholarly  hand,  and  glanced  over  its  contents. 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear  1  "  she  cried,  in  genuine  distress. 


356  THE   HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  What !     What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Cicely. 

"  His  mother  died  the  day  after  he  left  us,"  said  Mrs 
Herbert.  "  Dear  me !  Poor  fellow  !  "  She  cooed  the  ex- 
pressive sympathy  of  a  tender-hearted  woman  as  she  read 
the  rest  of  George's  letter.  It  told  her  in  a  manner  almost 
formal  that  he  had  found  his  mother  ill  when  he  arrived, 
and  that  she  had  died  on  the  evening  of  the  following  day. 
It  apologised  for  his  delay  in  thanking  her  for  her  kindness 
to  him  during  a  visit  to  which  he  would  always  look  back 
with  great  pleasure,  and  asked  her  to  explain  his  silence  to 
Lord  Caradoc,  and  to  tell  him  that  he  would  write  to  him 
very  shortly.  "  With  kind  remembrances  to  Miss  Caradoc," 
was  his  only  allusion  to  Cicely,  and  Mrs.  Herbert,  whose  eyes 
were  habitually  used  to  some  purpose,  could  not  help  feeling 
a  little  surprised  that,  at  a  time  when  a  craving  for  sympathy 
would  be  a  venial  weakness,  he  had  sent  no  more  intimate 
message  to  the  girl  whose  companionship  had  certainly  not 
been  the  least  factor  in  the  pleasure  which  he  acknowledged 
himself  to  have  gained  from  his  stay  at  Merrilees.  Cicely 
may  have  felt  it  but  natural  that  a  sudden  overwhelming 
bereavement  should  have  put  her  out  of  his  mind,  but  she 
had  enjoyed  his  society  too  much  not  to  feel  a  deep  sympathy 
with  him  in  his  loss  and  a  desire  to  express  it. 

"  Do  you  think  I  might  write  to  him  and  say  how  sorry  I 
am  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  dear,  do.  I  think  you  should,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert  as 
she  rose  and  collected  her  belongings.  "  And  I  will  write, 
too.  Dear,  dear  !  That  is  a  sad  ending  to  his  visit  to  us." 

The  two  letters  reached  George  in  due  course.  He  was 
grateful  for  both,  and  carried  one  of  them  with  him  where- 
ever  he  went. 

Lord  Caradoc  received  the  news  with  concern.  He 
talked  about  it  and  about  George  during  the  progress  of 
luncheon,  and  although  he  touched  in  the  course  of  his 


LORD  CARADOC  TAKES  ADVICE.        257 

conversation,  on  historical  periods  as  usual,  the  idea  pre- 
sented itself  to  Mrs.  Herbert's  mind  that  she  had  never 
known  him  to  take  so  human  an  interest  in  anyone  before. 
Once  or  twice  she  noticed  that  he  was  looking  at  his 
daughter,  as  if  the  possibility  of  her  forming  a  part  in  an 
actual  scheme  of  life  had  suggested  itself  to  him,  and  her 
woman's  wit  cleared  obstacles  and  arrived  at  a  definite 
impression  that  something,  of  which  she  knew  nothing  as 
yet,  had  taken  place.  She  observed  Lord  Caradoc  more 
closely,  and  set  up  posts,  as  it  were,  in  her  conversation 
towards  which  he  could  direct  his  own.  Before  the  end  of 
the  meal  she  had  discovered  more  than  he  had  any  intention 
of  revealing  to  anybody  whatsoever.  Then  she,  also, 
regarded  Cicely  from  a  new  point  of  view,  and  wondered 
many  things. 

A  few  days  later  Lord  Caradoc  received  George's  letter. 
He  had  been  on  the  way  to  his  club  to  write  it  when  he 
had  been  intercepted  by  Guy.  It  ran  as  follows : 

"DEAR  LORD  CARADOC, 

"  Mrs.  Herbert  will  have  told  you  of  the  loss  I  have 
sustained,  and  you  will  not  have  expected  to  hear  from  me 
before.  I  should  naturally  have  written  to  you  immediately 
on  my  return  to  express  my  thanks  to  you  for  allowing  me 
to  participate  in  such  an  important  work  as  that  on  which 
we  have  been  engaged  during  the  past  month,  and  also 
for  the  very  generous  acknowledgment  of  my  services 
which  you  have  been  good  enough  to  make  me.  I  do  so 
now  with  the  sincerest  gratitude. 

"With  reference  to  the  petition  I  made  to  you  on  the 
last  night  of  my  stay  in  your  house,  I  can  only  now  with- 
draw it,  and  beg  you,  if  you  can,  to  forget  that  it  was  ever 
made.  But  I  think  that  I  owe  it  to  you,  as  my  very  kind 
patron,  to  tell  you,  as  far  as  I  know  myself,  who  I  am. 

H.M.  9 


258  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  I  have  been  told  that  my  father  died  before  I  was  born. 
I  was  brought  up  entirely  by  the  mother  whom  I  have  just 
lost,  the  best  that  a  man  ever  had.  But  there  was  a  secret 
in  her  life  which  shadowed  its  end.  I  should  speak  of  it 
to  no  one  else,  and  I  ask  you  to  believe  me  when  I  say, 
speaking  not  as  her  son,  but  as  a  man  who  has  known  a 
good  woman  all  his  life,  that  it  was  nothing  of  which  she 
for  her  own  sake  need  have  been  ashamed.  I  have  been 
told  that  she  was  under  a  promise  not  to  disclose  it,  and 
she  died  without  doing  so.  I  know  that  she  must  have 
made  an  unhappy  marriage  after  the  death  of  my  father, 
and  that  is  all  I  do  know.  My  mother's  affairs  were 
managed  for  her  by  a  man  of  the  name  of  Robert  Richards, 
who  is  in  business  in  Glasgow.  His  daughter  was  brought 
up  by  my  mother.  He  is  in  possession  of  the  secret  which 
she  carried  to  her  grave  with  her,  and  I  have  got  this  much 
from  him,  that  the  secret  has  to  do  with  my  birth.  More 
than  that  I  cannot  extort  by  any  means  in  my  power — 
and  I  have  tried  all— except  that  in  time  I  shall  know 
everything. 

"  Under  these  circumstances  I  feel  that  I  have  no  right 
to  urge  you  to  allow  me  to  try  and  win  your  daughter's 
hand.  I  would  not  even  make  the  attempt  if  I  had  your 
permission.  I  must  do  my  work  in  the  world  without 
hoping  for  that  happiness,  and  be  thankful  that  the 
disadvantage  which  I  have  confessed  to  you  will  not  hinder 
that  work. 

"  I  know  you  will  allow  me  to  sign  myself,  with  the 
utmost  respect  and  gratitude, 

**  Your  sincere  friend, 

"GEORGE  GREENFIELD.** 

Lord  Caradoc  took  off  the  gold-rimmed  glasses  which  he 
had  put  on  to  read  this  letter,  and  wiped  them  reflectively. 


LORD  CARADOC  TAKES  ADVICE.        259 

Then  he  put  them  on  again,  and  read  the  letter  through  a 
second  time.  "  Life  presents  problems  that  are  not  easy  of 
solution,"  he  said  to  himself,  after  he  had  sat  thinking  for 
some  considerable  time.  Then  he  locked  the  letter  away 
in  a  drawer  of  his  writing  table. 

But  he  could  not  lock  away  the  remembrance  of  it,  nor 
the  particular  problem  which  it  presented  to  his  mind. 
After  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  concentrate  himself  on 
the  work  he  had  in  hand  he  rose  and  paced  the  long  library 
from  end  to  end  with  the  short  steps  of  a  student,  his 
hands  behind  his  bent  figure,  his  eye-glasses  perched  on 
his  high-bridged  nose.  George  was  a  man  after  his  own 
heart.  That  much  had  become  quite  clear  to  him.  Even 
the  acknowledgment  of  some  mystery  about  his  birth,  or 
perhaps  the  way  in  which  he  had  made  it,  increased  his 
liking  for  him.  Had  he  any  right  to  withhold  the  dearest 
wish  of  his  heart  from  a  man  so  upright  and  honourable 
because  of  something  which  he  could  not  help,  and  which 
affected  his  character  in  no  way  ?  Then  he  thought  of  his 
only  daughter  and  of  his  ancient  name,  which  there  was  no 
one  but  Cicely  to  bear  after  him ;  and  although  that  name 
was  seldom  enough  in  his  thoughts,  he  felt  that  his  clear 
duty  lay  in  preserving  it  spotless.  And  yet,  in  spite  of 
that  clear  duty,  his  mind  was  not  easy,  and  he  continued 
to  pace  the  floor.  At  last  the  idea  came  to  him,  not 
because  he  felt  any  doubt  of  his  duty,  but  perhaps  because 
he  wanted  it  illumined  for  him,  that  he  would  disclose  the 
matter  to  a  third  person,  and  he  rang  the  bell  and  asked 
that  Mrs.  Herbert  might  be  informed  that  he  would  be  glad 
if  she  would  come  and  speak  to  him. 

Mrs.  Herbert  came,  knowing  very  well  the  question  on 
which  she  was  to  be  consulted,  having  indeed  expected  such 
a  summons  ever  since  she  had  set  her  sharp  wits  to  work  a 
few  days  before.  As  she  came  in  in  her  tidy,  sensible 

s  a 


25o  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

morning  dress,  and  sat  down  opposite  to  the  man  who  had 
been  her  kind  friend  for  so  many  years,  her  bright  eyes 
bent  critically  upon  him  from  behind  her  spectacles,  she 
looked  like  a  woman  whom  it  might  be  well  to  consult  on 
many  a  problem  of  life,  great  or  small. 

Lord  Caradoc  told  her  in  short,  hesitating  sentences  what 
had  passed  between  him  and  George,  and  gave  her  the 
letter  which  he  had  received  that  morning. 

"You  think  I  am  right,  I  hope,  in  the  stipulation  I 
made  ?  "  he  asked,  when  she  had  handed  it  back  to  him. 

"  Quite  right,  absolutely  right,"  she  answered  at  once. 

"  I  cannot  think  otherwise,"  said  Lord  Caradoc  gravely. 

"  He  says  that  the  mystery  is  to  be  cleared." 

"  He  does  not  say  when.  I  gather  that  he  does  not 
know." 

"  It  is  difficult  to  think  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert 
thoughtfully,  "as  a  man  of  anything  but  good  birth.  In 
fact,  one  might  go  farther  than  that,  and  say  that  if  you 
were  asked  to  pick  out  a  man  of  undoubted  gentle  birth 
your  choice  would  be  very  likely  to  fall  on  Mr.  Greenfield." 

"I  do  not  think  much  about  these  things,"  said  Lord 
Caradoc,  "  but  I  think  I  should  agree  with  you." 

"Sir  Guy  Bertram,  for  instance,  who  was  here  a  short 
time  ago,"  pursued  Mrs.  Herbert,  "  is,  I  suppose,  of 
undoubtedly  good  birth,  but  I  should  say  that  Mr. 
Greenfield  carried  it  more  obviously  than  he  did." 

"The  family  of  Bertram  is  nearly  as  old  as — as  any," 
observed  Lord  Caradoc. 

"  Have  you  ever  noticed "  began  Mrs.  Herbert,  and 

then  paused. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Lord  Caradoc.  But  she  did 
not  continue  her  remark. 

"  There  will  be  Cicely  to  consider  in  any  case,"  she  said 
instead. 


LORD  CARADOC  TAKES  ADVICE.        261 

"There  has  been  nothing,  I  think,  between  them,** 
hazarded  Lord  Caradoc. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  decisively.  "  But  Cicely  is 
very  young,  and  rather  impressionable.  If  I  have  judged 
Mr.  Greenfield  aright  he  would  be  very  hard  to  resist 
where  he  had  set  his  affections."  She  finished  with 
a  smile.  It  was  obvious,  at  any  rate,  where  her 
sympathies  lay. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "  There  is  to  be  a  limit  to 
this  mystery,  whatever  it  may  be,"  said  Lord  Caradoc  at 
last.  "  Until  I  was  satisfied  on  the  point  of  birth  I  could 
not  countenance  the  idea  of  any  such — er — arrangement  as 
has  been — er — suggested.  But  Mr.  Greenfield  is  a  man 
whom  I  feel  myself  able  to  trust  implicitly,  and — er — if  he 
were  to  come  here  again  to  help  me  in  my  work  there  is 
no  reason  that  I  can  see,  considering  the  terms  of  his  letter, 
why  the  relations  which  have  existed  hitherto  between  him 
and  us  should  be  altered  in  any  way." 

He  spoke  slowly,  appearing  to  give  expression  to  his 
thoughts,  as  was  his  wont,  as  they  gradually  formed 
themselves  in  his  mind.  His  speech  showed  a  plentiful 
ignorance  of  the  principles  upon  which  he  was  bringing 
his  mind  to  bear;  but  Mrs.  Herbert,  who  might  have 
been  expected  to  display  wider  knowledge,  did  not 
contradict  him. 

"  If  he  will  come,"  she  said,  "I  see  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  do  so." 

"  I  will  write  and  ask  him,"  said  Lord  Caradoc,  with  a 
sigh  of  relief. 

Mrs.  Herbert  rose,  but  did  not  retire  at  once. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  man  who,  Mr.  Greenfield 
says,  is  in  possession  of  his  secret  ?  "  she  asked. 

Lord  Caradoc  took  up  George's  ittter  and  told  her,  and 
then  she  left  him  to  reply  to  it. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

But  George  did  not  come  again  to  Merrilees — at  least, 
not  just  then.  His  work  in  London,  somewhat  neglected 
of  late,  detained  him,  and  even  if  he  had  been  free  it  is 
doubtful  whether  he  could  have  brought  himself  to  accept 
Lord  Caradoc's  invitation  on  the  tacit  understanding  which 
had  been  conveyed  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

CHRISTMAS  AT  HOLLINGBOURNK  HALL. 

CHRISTMAS  festivities  were  no  mere  pretence  at  Holling- 
bourne  Hall,  Lord  Conder's  seat  in  Hertfordshire.  From 
their  earliest  childhood  the  four  Conder  boys  and  the  six 
Conder  girls  had  been  accustomed  to  look  forward  to  that 
season  of  the  year  as  affording  the  highest  form  of  enjoy- 
ment that  could  be  extracted  from  life.  Every  established 
tradition  connected  in  any  degree  with  the  observance  of 
Christmas  and  the  New  Year  was  zealously  kept  up.  The 
house  was  always  crowded  with  relations,  and  as  these 
were  numerous,  especially  on  Lord  Conder's  side  of  the 
family,  and  as,  moreover,  the  sunny  Conder  views  of  life 
were  as  common  amongst  them  as  the  possession  of  freckles, 
and  hair  varying  from  red  to  sandy,  but  seldom,  if  ever, 
inclining  to  black,  they  were  usually  a  very  merry  party 
indeed.  The  making  or  buying  of  numerous  presents  was 
carried  out  with  ostentatious  secrecy  by  the  younger 
members  of  the  family,  and  the  delightful  evening  on 
which  they  were  offered  with  diffidence  and  accepted  with 
cries  of  pleasure  and  surprise  was  anticipated  by  about 
two  months. 

The  first  appearance  of  the  "  waits  "  was  regarded  as  an 
indication  that  the  slow  march  of  time  was  at  last  begin- 
ning to  hasten  to  the  wished-for  end,  and  the  little  short- 
nosed  Conders  would  lie  and  shiver  with  ecstasy  in  their 
little  warm  beds  while  the  dismal  moan  of  "  The  Mistletoe 
Bough**  affronted  the  midnight  air,  wailed  forth  by  a 


264  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

clarinet,  a  hautbois,  a  bassoon,  and  the  usual  incompetent 
trombone.  By  the  time  the  church  choir  came  round  to 
sing  carols  in  the  hall,  shepherded  by  the  rector,  who  had 
but  little  voice,  and  the  curate,  who  had  none,  there  could 
no  longer  be  any  doubt  that  the  period  of  revelry  and  licence 
had  actually  set  in.  For  those  of  the  little  Conders  whose  age 
afforded  the  least  excuse  for  the  permission  were  allowed 
to  sit  up  for  the  occasion — and  the  choir  did  not  come 
until  nearly  ten  o'clock — while  those  who  had  not  yet 
attained  to  that  dignity  were  whipped  out  of  bed,  wrapped 
up  in  little  flannel  dressing-gowns  and  woollen  shoes,  and 
carried  downstairs  by  a  bevy  of  chattering  maids  to  blink 
contentedly  at  the  fascinating  performance — and  the 
rector  singing  tenor  was  not  a  sight  to  be  missed — and 
at  its  conclusion  were  carried  off  again  to  fall  blissfully 
asleep— if  they  were  not  asleep  already— convinced  that 
life  for  a  little  Conder  who  was  good  and  not  naughty 
brought  times  of  almost  insupportable  pleasure.  There 
was  a  supper  in  the  servants'  hall  after  the  carol-singing, 
at  which  Lord  Conder  himself  presided,  and  was  more 
than  usually  beaming  and  friendly,  so  that  the  acknow- 
ledged yokels  in  the  choir  forgot  their  shyness,  and  the 
small  tradespeople  their  superiority,  and  felt  both  alike 
that  it  was  a  great  occasion. 

After  the  carol-singing  events  crowded  one  upon  the 
other  almost  too  fast,  and  the  march  of  time  quickened 
into  a  gallop  until  it  brought  the  great  day.  There  was 
the  pudding  to  be  stirred  under  the  friendly  eye  of  the  fat 
cook.  There  were  the  turkeys  to  be  inspected  in  the  larder, 
and  the  prize  ox,  or  the  most  important  part  of  what  had 
been  a  prize  ox,  from  the  home  farm,  whose  rosette  was 
always  pinned  on  to  the  unconscious  breast  of  the  youngest 
Conder  of  all.  On  another  morning  the  gardeners  would 
bring  in  great  armfuls  of  holly  and  mistletoe  from  the 


CHRISTMAS  AT  HOLLINGBOURNE  HALL.    265 

woods,  and  evergreens  from  the  shrubberies,  and  there 
would  be  festoons  of  greenery  to  be  made,  and  the  hall  and 
the  downstairs  rooms  and  the  nurseries  to  be  decorated  out 
of  all  semblance  to  their  everyday  appearance.  A  little 
later  on  the  Christmas  tree  would  appear  and  be  stood  up 
in  all  its  sombre  bareness  at  one  end  of  the  hall.  But  if 
anyone  thought  that  the  smallest  of  all  the  little  Conders 
looked  upon  this  tree  as  an  ordinary  fir  out  of  the  planta- 
tions he  would  be  vastly  mistaken.  Well  they  knew  that, 
however  bare  it  might  appear  when  it  was  brought  in,  it 
had  the  wonderful  faculty  of  putting  forth  in  a  single  night 
such  a  crop  of  pink  and  blue  and  yellow  and  white  tapers, 
such  apples  of  gold  and  silver  and  pearl,  and  such  entrancing 
toys,  while  from  about  its  roots  would  spring  such  a  variety 
of  brown  paper  parcels,  fertile  in  surprises,  that  it  never  once 
occurred  to  them  that  it  was  a  fir  at  all.  It  was  the 
Christmas  tree,  even  in  its  first  state  of  deceptive  barrenness. 
The  arrival  of  the  Christmas  guests  enlarged  the  bounds 
of  liberty  still  further.  The  nurseries  were  filled  to  over- 
flowing, and  the  nurses  of  the  little  Conders  dispensed 
affability  and  hot  buttered  toast  to  the  nurses  of  the  little 
Conders'  cousins.  There  were  nightly  romps  in  the  hall  and 
all  over  the  house,  for  it  was  thoroughly  understood  at 
Hollingbourne  Hall  that  Christmas  was  the  children's 
festival,  and  even  the  smoking  room  was  no  safe  retreat  for 
an  adult  sportsman  inclined  for  complete  rest  after  a  day  in 
the  coverts  or  with  the  hounds.  Everybody  had  assembled 
by  the  time  Christmas  Eve  came.  In  the  evening  there  was 
snap-dragon,  and  the  yule  log  was  brought  in,  while  later 
on  the  whole  party  sat  round  the  great  fireplace  in  the  hall 
and  told  ghost  stories,  which  it  was  tacitly  understood 
should  be  brought  to  an  extremely  matter-of-fact  ending 
out  of  deference  to  the  nerves  of  those  of  the  little  Conders 
who  were  old  enough  to  be  present. 


266  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

At  last  the  great  day  dawned,  and  the  house  rang  from 
an  early  hour  with  children's  laughter  and  children's  voices. 
Santa  Claus  had  got  in  somehow  during  the  night  and 
shown  his  usual  tactful  discernment.  In  the  morning  the 
whole  party  trooped  off  to  church  through  the  park,  and  if 
there  was  not  always  snow  underfoot,  frost  on  the  trees,  a 
blue  sky  above,  and  ice  that  would  bear  on  the  lake,  there 
always  should  have  been,  for  the  Conder  family  deserved  all 
the  benefits  that  Father  Christmas  had  it  in  his  power  to 
bestow  in  return  for  the  honour  they  showed  him.  There 
was  not  nearly  room  for  all  of  them  in  the  family  pew, 
and  bright  Conder  faces  were  scattered  all  over  the  church, 
and  hearty  Conder  voices  joined  in  the  psalms  and  hymns 
from  all  quarters,  so  that  the  rector,  who,  if  he  did  not 
know  how  to  sing  a  Christmas  carol,  did  know  how  to 
preach  a  Christmas  sermon,  was  annually  stirred  up  by  his 
unusual  congregation  to  surpass  all  his  previous  efforts. 
After  church  there  were  the  farm  and  the  stables  to  be 
visited,  with  beasts  to  be  poked  in  the  ribs  and  horses  to  be 
presented  with  sugar  and  carrots,  and  after  that  followed  a 
go-as-you-please  luncheon,  at  which  everyone  helped  them- 
selves, because  the  servants  were  having  their  Christmas 
dinner  in  their  own  quarters,  and  none  must  be  absent. 
This  was  the  time  when  an  enterprising  burglar  could  have 
ranged  at  will  over  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  but  Father 
Christmas  always  protected  Hollingbourne  Hall  during  this 
unguarded  hour,  or  else  all  the  enterprising  burglars  were 
enjoying  similar  festivities  in  the  bosoms  of  their  own 
families  and  had  lost  their  eye  for  business.  In  the  after- 
noon Lady  Conder  collected  her  brood,  and  with  such  of 
their  guests  as  chose  toaccompany  them  went  the  round  of  the 
little  village  and  carried  gifts  and  kind  words  to  her  poorer 
neighbours,  which  she  did  with  an  air  wholly  human  an<* 
far  removed  from  all  patronage. 


CHRISTMAS  AT  HOLLINGBOURNE  HALL.    267 

Dinner  was  at  six  o'clock,  for  every  little  Conder,  of 
whatever  age  or  size,  had  to  be  present.  It  was  such  a 
dinner  as  might  have  been  set  before  Lord  Conder's 
remotest  ancestors,  if  he  had  had  any  worth  speaking  of, 
but  his  grandfather  had  been  a  clerk  in  a  bank.  The 
turkey  was  carved  by  himself,  and  that  part  of  the  prize  ox 
reserved  for  the  purpose  by  his  twin  brother.  The  pudding 
was  brought  in  blazing  and  set  down  in  front  of  Lady 
Conder,  and  was  followed  immediately  by  dessert,  which 
was  accompanied  by  a  running  fire  from  the  crackers  and 
shrieks  of  laughter  over  the  mottoes  and  the  paper  caps. 
Then  the  glass  of  each  little  Conder  was  filled  with  some- 
thing sweet  and  sparkling,  and  Lord  Conder,  perhaps  with 
a  night-cap  of  tissue  paper  tied  under  his  chin,  perhaps 
with  a  military  helmet  of  the  same  material,  rose  to  make 
a  speech  and  propose  the  toasts.  Lord  Conder,  although  not 
gifted  with  wit,  was  so  extremely  jovial  and  hearty,  and  so 
full  of  pleasure  at  being  surrounded  by  all  those  whom  he 
loved  best  in  the  world,  and  so  little  ashamed  in  the  midst 
of  that  company  of  parting  with  every  vestige  of  dignity, 
that  the  little  Conders  judged  this  performance  to  be  the 
funniest  they  were  ever  privileged  to  witness.  They  rolled 
in  their  seats  and  clutched  each  other  in  a  frenzy  of  delight 
when  Lord  Conder's  voice  rose  to  an  impassioned  shriek, 
and  sat  quivering  with  open  mouths  ready  for  the  next  out- 
burst when  it  sank  into  a  mysterious  whisper.  Lord 
Conder's  twin  brother,  who  was  a  genuine  humourist,  and 
very  popular  with  his  nephews  and  nieces,  always  replied 
to  the  last  toast  of  "  All  friends  round  St.  Paul's,"  but  his 
speech,  although  warmly  received,  never  enjoyed  the 
success  that  attended  the  efforts  of  the  head  of  the  family. 

After  dinner  the  whole  party — men,  women,  and  children 
—trooped  out  into  the  hall,  and  there  was  the  Christmas 
tree,  blazing  with  light  and  glory,  from  branches  and  roots 


268  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

of  which  every  little  Conder  knew  from  past  experience 
would  come  exactly  what  he  or  she  desired  most  in  all  the 
world  at  that  moment.  And  when  the  revels  at  last  ended 
all  the  little  Conders  fell  asleep  in  their  several  little  beds, 
firmly  convinced  that  they  had  enjoyed  the  very  happiest 
day  out  of  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five. 

The  passage  of  years  had  robbed  Christmas  at  Holling- 
bourne  Hall  of  a  few  of  the  details  which  had  characterised 
it  when  the  Conder  family  were  for  the  most  part  of  a  very 
tender  age.  But  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  writing  four 
of  the  Conder  girls  and  one  of  the  boys  were  children  still 
in  age,  and  all  the  others  children  in  heart,  and  among  the 
numerous  cousins  who  shared  their  pleasures  with  them  at 
this  season  there  was  no  lack  of  girls  and  boys,  so  that 
Christmas  at  Hollingbourne  Hall  was  still  a  children's 
festival. 

Here  met,  in  the  year  in  which  the  events  we  are  describing 
took  place,  the  usual  collection  of  Conder  relatives.  Lord 
Caradoc,  who,  it  will  be  remembered,  in  a  moment  of 
clear-sighted  wisdom  had  married  Lord  Conder's  sister, 
accompanied  by  Cicely  and  Mrs.  Herbert,  had  been  per- 
suaded to  take  part  in  the  ceremonies  of  the  season.  And 
Guy  Bertram  and  George  Greenfield,  as  friends  of  the  family 
and  bachelors  without  home  ties,  were  also  members  of  the 
party.  Guy,  although  suffering  under  the  stings  of  a 
rejected  suit,  managed  to  make  himself  tolerably  cheerful, 
and  was  much  appreciated  as  a  companion  by  the  boys 
and  girls  who  thronged  the  house. 

As  for  George,  it  was  now  three  months  since  his 
mother's  death.  His  work  at  the  Bar,  even  in  that 
short  time,  had  increased,  and  his  spare  time  was  pretty 
fully  occupied  with  political  journalism  and  the  part  he 
was  taking  in  the  autumn  political  campaign.  Con- 
sequently he  could  not  have  accepted  Lord  Caradoc's 


CHRISTMAS  AT  HOLLINGBOURNE  HALL.    269 

offers,  more  than  once  renewed,  to  help  him  in  the  work  he 
was  doing  at  Merrilees,  even  if  he  had  been  so  minded. 
But  the  pressure  and  kindness  of  Lord  Caradoc's  letters 
had  affected  him,  and  the  trustfulness  shown  in  his  integrity 
and  good  faith  had  given  him  confidence  in  himself,  so 
that  when  Freddy  Conder,  of  whom  he  had  seen  something 
while  that  breezy  sailor  was  engaged  with  his  books  at 
the  Royal  Naval  College,  Greenwich,  invited  him  to  spend 
Christmas  at  Hollingbourne  Hall,  and  told  him  whom  he 
might  expect  to  meet  there,  George's  resolution  to  see 
nothing  more  of  Cicely  until  his  doubts  about  his  parentage 
were  set  at  rest,  whenever  that  should  be,  had  begun  to 
weaken,  and  he  eventually  accepted  the  invitation.  Having 
done  so,  he  allowed  pleasurable  anticipations  to  colour 
his  thoughts,  and  probably  none  of  the  many  guests  who 
drove  up  to  the  hospitable  door  of  Hollingbourne  Hall  at 
intervals  through  that  Christmas  Eve,  not  even  the  holiday- 
making  boys  and  girls,  expected  to  derive  such  enjoyment 
from  the  visit  as  he  did.  Hard  and  successful  work  and 
the  elastic  spirits  of  youth — for  he  was  not  quite  twenty- 
five — had  had  their  due  effect,  and  the  tragedy  of  his 
mother's  death  and  all  the  disappointments  and  sorrow 
that  had  accompanied  it  were  lifting  their  shadows ;  and 
for  these  few  days,  at  any  rate,  he  had  no  intention  of 
brooding  upon  what  the  past  had  brought  to  him,  or  what 
the  future  might  bring.  As  he  drove  up  to  the  house  in 
the  station  omnibus,  in  company  with  a  large  party  of 
chattering  Conder  relatives,  whom  he  did  not  know,  his 
thoughts  did  revert  rather  sadly  to  his  little  sister,  who 
would  spend  a  very  dreary  Christmas  in  her  father's  house 
in  that  grim  northern  city.  He  would  willingly  have  put 
aside  all  his  own  pleasure,  and  even  braved  the  now 
detested  company  of  Mr.  Richards,  in  order  to  be  with  her 
at  a  season  which  they  had  always  spent  together.  But 


$70  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

Mr.  Richards  had  not  invited  him,  and  even  for  the  sake  of 
being  with  Peggy  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  propose  a 
visit  to  Mr.  Richards's  house  unasked. 

But  here  they  were  under  the  wide  porch  of  Holling- 
bourne  Hall,  and  a  flood  of  light  poured  on  to  the  snow 
from  that  hospitable  door  round  which  gathered  a  group  of 
beaming  faces  to  welcome  the  last  of  the  arrivals. 

"  Now  we  are  all  here  at  last,"  said  Lord  Conder,  as  he 
wrung  George's  hand.  "  Howdy  do,  my  dear  Helen  ?  " — 
this  to  his  sister-in-law.  "Howdy  do?  Ton  my  word, 
you  look  younger  every  time  I  see  you.  And  the  chicks  ! 
God  bless  'em !  Well,  my  dears  " — Lord  Conder  was  by 
this  time  muffled  in  embraces — "  come  to  see  your  old 
uncle  again,  have  you  ?  That's  right !  That's  right !  Ah, 
John,  my  boy,  they  keep  us  going,  don't  they  ?  How  are 
you,  old  fellow? "  And  Lord  Conder  concluded  his  welcome 
with  a  confidential  clasp  of  his  brother's  hand. 

It  was  tea-time  at  Hollingbourne  Hall,  and  under  the 
thick  festoons  of  evergreens  the  large  party  who  had  already 
settled  down  to  make  themselves  at  home  during  their 
visit  were  scattered  all  over  the  hall.  But,  amongst  so 
many  that  were  as  yet  strange  to  him,  George's  eyes 
searched  for  and  found  the  flower- like  face  of  the  girl 
whose  image  had  been  constantly  with  him  ever  since  he 
had  last  seen  her,  although,  at  one  time,  he  had  made 
steadfast  efforts  to  put  it  away  from  him.  She  was  stand- 
ing by  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  great  fireplace,  and  shg 
came  forward  to  greet  him  with  manifest  pleasure,  with  a 
soft  flush  on  her  cheeks.  George's  heart  leaped  within  him, 
but  Cicely's  blushes  were  of  no  more  account  than  the 
coming  and  going  of  the  cloud  shadows  on  an  April  day, 
and  she  had  blushed  just  as  vividly  on  greeting  Guy 
Bertram  earlier  in  the  afternoon.  Guy  himself  came  for- 
ward, as  good-looking  and  apparently  as  light-hearted  as 


CHRISTMAS  AT  HOLLINGBOURNE  HALL.    271 

ever.  The  Conder  twins  had  annexed  him,  and  now  hung 
one  on  either  arm. 

"Well,  George,"  he  said  as  he  disengaged  a  friendly 
hand,  "  how  are  you,  old  chap  ?  Come  and  have  a 
cigarette  when  you've  drunk  your  fill.  You  won't  have 
much  time.  We're  allowed  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then 
we  come  back  and  play  games  with  these  infants." 

"  Infants,  indeed !  "  exclaimed  the  twins  in  one  voice,  and 
Elsie  added,  "  If  you  go  into  the  smoking-room,  we  shall 
come  too,"  which  they  did,  and  were  turned  out  again  with 
ignominy  by  Dicky.  "  Only  men  allowed  here ! "  said 
Dicky,  "  and  I'm  keeping  the  door.  Outside,  please!  We 
shall  be  with  you  in  ten  minutes,  children." 

George  was  content  to  forego  the  smoking  of  tobacco 
for  the  pleasure  of  receiving  his  tea  at  the  hands  of  Cicely, 
and  listening  to  the  tones  of  her  low,  musical  voice.  There 
could  be  nothing  between  them  but  friendship,  he  had  told 
himself,  but  the  friendship  was  very  sweet,  and  he  might 
surely  enjoy  it  during  this  brief  respite  from  the  cares  of 
the  world.  Mrs.  Herbert,  seated  on  a  sofa  by  the  side  of 
Lady  Conder,  who  was  calmly  weighing  the  merits  of 
knitted  shawls  as  against  flannel  petticoats  as  Christmas 
presents  for  the  village  matrons,  unshaken  by  the  hubbub 
surrounding  her,  regarded  the  pair  with  kindly  eyes  from 
behind  her  spectacles,  and,  although  she  stood  in  the  place 
of  a  mother  to  Cicely  and  had  agreed  with  Lord  Caradoc 
that  no  consent  could  under  present  circumstances  be 
given  to  any  proposal  of  closer  ties,  she  made  no  attempt 
to  separate  them  nor  exhibited  any  uneasiness  at  their 
prolonged  tete-a-tete. 

The  tea-tables  were  presently  removed,  and  the  hall  cleared 
for  games.  Dicky,  whose  zeal  in  the  performance  of  his 
self-imposed  duties  outran  his  discretion,  had  actually 
succeeded  in  disinterring  Lord  Caradoc  from  a  comfortable 


272  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

seat  in  the  deserted  library,  under  compulsion  of  taking  part 
in  a  game  of  blind  man's  buff,  unsoftened  by  the  assurances 
of  the  eminent  historian  that  his  aptitude  for  that  pursuit 
was  small.  He  would  not  have  been  allowed  to  disturb  his 
uncle,  who,  it  was  generally  understood,  was  not  amenable 
to  the  seasonable  discipline  of  the  house,  had  not  Lord 
Conder  unwillingly  obeyed  a  summons  to  his  business  room 
just  before,  where  he  was  engaged  in  dealing  as  mercifully 
as  possible  with  a  poacher.  Lord  Caradoc,  however,  ousted 
from  his  quiet  retreat,  came  up  to  the  fireplace,  and  when 
he  saw  George  greeted  him  with  such  evident  pleasure  that 
Lady  Conder,  who  had  to  reintroduce  him  to  all  the  members 
of  his  wife's  family  every  time  they  met,  regarded  him  with  an 
air  in  which  surprise  struggled  with  gratification  for  the 
mastery.  He  had  probably  forgotten  all  about  George's  plea 
for  still  closer  relations  with  him,  but  his  delight  at  finding 
such  a  companion  amongst  what  we  fear  must  be  confessed 
was  a  somewhat  uncongenial  houseful  of  guests  was  so  great, 
that  he  refused  the  offer  of  the  undisturbed  use  of  the 
library  until  dinner-time  which  Lord  Conder  made  to  him 
on  his  return,  and  stood  in  front  of  the  fire,  a  complacent 
witness  of  the  frolics  of  the  greater  part  of  the  company, 
while  he  talked  to  George,  who  would,  perhaps,  have  pre- 
ferred to  have  foregone  the  claims  of  the  muse  of  history 
at  that  particular  time. 

The  laws  of  precedence  were  not  observed  at  Holling- 
bourne  Hall  during  the  Christmas  season.  The  names  of 
all  the  ladies  were  written  on  pieces  of  paper  and  put  into 
a  hat,  from  which  the  men  drew  their  partners  for  the  pro- 
cession into  the  dining-room.  On  the  first  evening  of 
George's  visit  Lord  Conder  led  the  way  with  a  demure 
maiden  of  the  age  of  nine,  and  Lady  Conder  brought  up 
the  reai  on  the  arm  of  Freddy,  who  took  occasion  to  kiss 
her  as  they  passed  beneath  a  great  bunch  of  mistletoe 


CHRISTMAS  AT  HOLLINBOURNGE  HALL.    273 

suspended  in  the  hall,  under  the  sympathetic  eyes  of  several 
iootmen.  Mary  Conder  fell  to  the  lot  of  George,  who 
envied  the  good  fortune  of  Dicky  in  drawing  Cicely.  Mary 
Conder,  however,  seemed  to  have  divined  in  some  way 
how  matters  stood  with  him,  for  when  Lord  Conder  had 
said  "Thank  God,"  which  was  his  usual  form  of  grace, 
and  begun  to  devote  himself  to  the  entertainment  of  the 
small  lady  on  his  right,  she  said,  "  Doesn't  Cicely  look 
sweet  to-night  ?  "  and  before  dinner  was  over  she  knew 
considerably  more  of  George's  feelings  towards  her  cousin 
than  he  had  any  intention  of  divulging. 

Nor  was  that  all.  If  there  was  anything  to  be  done  to 
further  the  views  or  add  to  the  enjoyment  of  their  friends, 
you  might  safely  trust  a  member  of  the  Conder  family  to 
do  it.  When  the  men  and  the  ladies  parted  for  the  night, 
Mary  Conder  went  into  Cicely's  room  with  her,  and  as  the 
two  girls,  the  one  so  beautiful  and  the  other  so  kind  and 
true-hearted,  sat  over  the  fire  together,  Mary  Conder  began 
to  sing  the  praises  of  George. 

"  Dear  Bobby  says  he  is  one  of  the  finest  fellows  he 
knows,"  she  said,  "  and  yet,  you  know,  they  do  not  agree 
in  politics." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  Bobby  would  mind  that  very  much,** 
observed  Cicely  with  unconscious  irony. 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  does,"  said  Mary,  "  although  there 
can't  be  many  Radicals  as  nice  and  handsome  as  Mr. 
Greenfield.  And,  Cicely  dear,  I  am  sure  he  is  awfully  in 
love  with  you," 

"  Oh,  Mary !  "  exclaimed  Cicely,  her  face  a  deep  red. 
44  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing  ?  I  am  sure  it  has  never 
entered  his  mind.  He  would  much  rather  talk  to  father 
than  to  me." 

"  You  blind  little  bat,"  said  Mary  tenderly.  "  Can't  you 
see  ?  " 

H.lf.  T 


«74  THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

Cicely  held  her  hands  to  her  flaming  cheeks.  Perhaps 
she  did  sec.  Perhaps  the  memory  of  many  little  signs  that 
she  had  scarcely  understood  rose  before  her,  their  signifi- 
cance suddenly  clear.  But  she  threw  her  hands  from  her. 

"I  don't  want  it,"  she  said  impatiently.  "I  don't 
believe  it  is  true.  I  don't  want  any  man  to  be  in  love 
with  me.  Why  should  anyone  want  any  more  than  what 
we  have  here,  with  everybody  so  kind  and  so  merry  ?  If— 
if  1  bought  anyone  was  in  love  with  me  it  would  spoil 
everything.  I  couldn't  have  any  fun  with  Uncle  Robert, 
or  with  Dicky  or  Freddy,  but  I  should  feel  his  eyes  were 
upon  me  and  that  he  wanted  me  all  to  himself.  I —  I * 

"  Why,  Cicely  darling !  "  exclaimed  Mary  in  amaze, 
**  What  can  have  put  all  that  into  your  head  ?  You  are 
only  coming  out  next  Tuesday,  and  you  have  hardly  seen 
anybody  yet." 

"  No,  but  when  you  are  alone  a  lot  you  think  of  things 
all  the  more,"  said  Cicely,  speaking  more  quietly.  "  I  know 
I  should  feel  like  that.  Look  at  Mr.  Douglas  with  Celia, 
how  he  follows  her  about  with  his  eyes.  I  suppose  they 
will  be  engaged  soon ;  but  she  is  not  in  the  least  like 
what  she  was  last  year.  I  noticed  her  to-night  when  Algy 
kissed  her  as  we  were  coming  upstairs.  She  didn't  like  it 
a  bit,  although  they  are  cousins,  and  he  has  always  done 
it  ever  since  she  was  tiny.  She  looked  at  Mr.  Douglas. 
Fancy !  Algy !  I  should  hate  to  be  like  that  and  to 
feel  that  I  belonged  to  someone  and  couldn't  be  myself.'* 

"You  would  only  feel  like  that  if  it  wasn't  the  right 
man,"  said  Mary  reflectively.  "Cicely  dear,  there  is 
nobody  else,  is  there  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  Cicely  vehemently. 

"  Hasn't  there  ever  been  ? "  Mary  persisted.  "  I 
thought " 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Cicely,  her  cheeks  red 


CHRISTMAS  AT  HOLLINGBOURNE  HALL.    275 

again.  "  But  indeed  it  isn't  so.  I  was  rather  silly  a  few 
months  ago.  But  directly  I  began  to  think — and — and 
Mrs.  Herbert  said  something  to  me — it  all  left  off.  And  I 
don't  want  it  to  begin  again,  Mary,  now  I  am  quite  happy 
and — and  rather  ashamed  of  myself.  There  is  such  a  lot 
of  time.  I  am  four  years  younger  than  you,  you  dear 
thing,  and  you  are  quite  happy  without  all  that.  Why 
can't  I  be  happy  too  in  the  same  way  ? " 

"  It  is  different  with  us,"  said  Mary,  with  a  shade  of 
melancholy  in  her  voice.  "  We  are  none  of  us  pretty,  and 
father  is  very  rich." 

"  You  darling !  "  said  Cicely  impulsively.  *  Men  must  be 
very  silly  if  they  can't  see  how  good  and  sweet  you  are. 
And  as  for  being  rich,  I  should  think  it's  easy  enough  to 
tell  that  sort  of  man,  although  I  have  never  met  any  of 
them." 

"  I  have,"  said  Mary,  "  and  it  isn't  so  very  easy." 

"  Well,  don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any  more,"  said  Cicely. 
"  Let  us  talk  about  the  ball  on  Tuesday." 


CHAPTER    XXIL 

MRS.   HERBERT   INTERVENES. 

WHEN  George  Greenfield  rose  on  the  morning  of  Christ- 
mas Day  he  looked  out  on  a  world  of  white.  Father 
Christmas,  who,  at  a  certain  period  in  the  world's 
history,  was  told  that  he  must  corne  about  a  fortnight 
earlier  than  had  been  his  wont,  and  has  hardly  recovered 
from  his  fit  of  the  sulks  ever  since,  for  this  year,  at  all 
events,  had  roused  his  energies  and  refused  to  put  up  with 
the  rain  and  mild  weather  with  which  he  had  latterly  been 
accompanied.  He  had  seen  to  it  that  a  hard  frost  should 
precede  him  by  about  a  week,  so  that  the  ice  on  the 
lake  at  Hollingbourne  Hall  had  already  rung  to  the  blades 
of  the  skaters.  Not  content  with  that  he  had  ordered  the 
snow,  which  had  been  falling  in  heavy  flakes  all  through 
the  night  of  Christmas  Eve,  and  as  George  stood  at  his 
window  he  saw  the  wide  stretch  of  park-land  and  the 
branches  of  the  oaks  with  which  it  was  studded  and  the 
lawns  and  shrubberies  near  the  house  one  mass  of 
gleaming  white  under  the  faint  blue  of  a  cloudless  sky. 
He  could  see  the  roofs  of  the  village  and  the  square  tower 
of  the  church  beyond  the  trees,  and  the  Christmas  bells 
were  already  ringing  to  usher  in  the  great  day  of  the 
Christian  year.  George  dressed  quickly  and  hurried  down 
to  the  church  through  the  snow.  Many  of  the  large 
household  were  assembled  there,  with  a  good  sprinkling  of 
the  villagers,  and  as  he  knelt  down  in  a  seat  near  Cicely 
and  afterwards  by  her  side  at  the  altar  he  felt  his  love  for 


MRS.  HERBERT   INTERVENES.  277 

her  heightened  and  purified,  and  himself  better  able  to 
wait  in  hope  and  patience  for  a  time  when  everything 
should  be  well  with  him. 

It  did  not  take  very  long  to  get  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  any  member  of  the  house  of  Conder,  and  as  the 
breakfast  table  gradually  filled  up  with  those  kind  and 
merry-hearted  people,  all  talking  and  laughing  and  con- 
gratulating one  another,  George's  heart  grew  light,  and  he 
experienced  a  glow  of  happiness  such  as  he  had  seldom 
felt  in  all  his  life.  Lord  Caradoc,  it  is  true,  appeared 
rather  bewildered  by  all  the  noise  and  bustle,  and  the  two 
young  lovers,  whose  woeful  plight  had  aroused  Cicely's 
scorn  the  night  before,  looked  as  if  a  breakfast  party  of 
two  would  have  been  more  to  their  liking.  And  Cicely 
herself  was  quieter  than  usual.  But  with  these  exceptions 
the  whole  party — and  there  were  over  thirty  of  them — 
were  like  one  large  family,  all  bound  together  by  mutual 
affection  and  the  genial  influences  of  the  season. 

But  we  must  linger  no  longer  over  the  history  of  that 
Christmas  Day,  which  ran  its  happy  course  in  much  the 
same  way  as  the  previous  Christmas  Days  which  we  have 
already  described  at  Hollingbourne  Hall.  Bobby,  the  only 
absent  member  of  the  family,  was  remembered  and  talked 
of  as  much  as  any  absentee  could  have  expected  to  be  in 
the  midst  of  so  much  merriment.  He  had  reached  Japan, 
from  which  far  country  a  cablegram  had  been  received,  full 
of  good  wishes  to  his  united  and  affectionate  family. 

The  party  remained  together  for  nearly  a  week.  The 
ice  held  over  Christmas  Day,  and  then  disappeared  in  a 
burst  of  mild,  but  fine  weather.  Father  Christmas  had 
done  his  duty  nobly,  and  relinquished  his  responsibilities 
lo  winter,  who  had  not  long  succeeded  in  vanquishing 
autumn  and  now  seemed  to  be  prematurely  attacked  by 
his  arch  enemy  spring.  There  was  a  meet  of  the  hounds 


278  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

on  the  lawn  in  front  of  Hollingbourne  Hall,  and  the 
boundless  hospitality  of  the  Conders  was  extended  to  a 
crowd  of  their  neighbours,  who  thronged  the  hall  and 
the  dining  room,  and  sallied  forth  accompanied  by  the 
greater  part  of  the  house -party,  to  find  a  fox  in  a  distant 
spinney,  and  to  kill  him  in  the  next  county  after  a  run 
which  kept  tongues  busy  for  at  least  a  week.  On  the 
following  day  there  was  a  shoot.  This  was  a  time-honoured 
occasion  at  Hollingbourne  Hall,  for  those  of  the  boys  who 
were  old  enough  were  allowed  to  take  their  places  along 
the  hedgerows  and  at  the  edges  of  the  woods  for  the  first 
time,  and  many  of  the  men,  who  now  killed  their  birds 
with  practised  hand  and  eye,  remembered  with  pleasure 
their  first  glorious  day,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago, 
on  which  the  number  of  cartridges  expended  had  been  out 
of  all  proportion  to  the  head  of  game  presently  extended 
on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house.  Certainly  to  Dicky 
and  a  cousin  of  his  own  age,  who  had  each  been  put  in 
possession  of  a  new  gun  by  one  of  the  best  makers,  this 
day  was  more  eagerly  anticipated  and  enjoyed  than  any 
other.  A  wonderful  number  of  birds  constantly  streamed 
over  their  heads  wherever  they  might  happen  to  be  placed 
in  the  line  of  guns,  and  many  an  old  cock  pheasant  who 
could  little  have  expected  it  was  permitted  to  go  unharmed. 
But  none  of  the  older  men  seemed  to  mind,  and  when  either 
of  the  boys  did  bring  down  his  bird — or  even  that  of  his  next 
neighbour — his  feat  was  always  applauded  as  it  deserved. 

On  the  night  before  the  party  broke  up  there  was  a  ball. 
It  was  given  in  honour  of  Florence  Conder  and  Cicely, 
both  of  whom  were  to  be  presented  in  the  following  spring. 
But  before  we  come  to  that  we  have  to  record  a  few  con- 
versations between  some  of  the  characters  with  which  our 
story  chiefly  concerns  itself  during  that  Christmas  party  at 
Hollingbourne  Hall. 


MRS.  HERBERT  INTERVENES.  179 

The  first  was  between  George  and  Guy,  and  was  held 
about  the  same  time  as  that  already  recorded  between 
Cicely  and  Mary  Conder.  Most  of  the  men  were  in  the 
billiard-room,  and  there  was  space  and  opportunity  in  the 
smoking-room  for  a  quiet  conversation.  Guy  drew  George 
towards  a  big  sofa,  apart  from  the  little  group  round  the 
fire. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  tell  me  ?  "  he  asked  him.  "  I 
haven't  seen  you  for  three  months." 

"  About  Peggy,  you  mean  ?  "  said  George.  "  Yes  ;  she 
told  me  to  tell  you  that  she  had  never  thought  you  had 
given  her  up  of  your  own  free  will.  And  I  think  I  may 
say  on  my  own  account  that  she  has  forgiven  you  for 
making  that  promise.  Poor  child !  She  apparently  has 
made  no  promises,  and  hasn't  even  been  asked  to  make 
any.  So  I  said  I  would  give  you  her  message  when  I  saw 
you.  And  she  sent  you  her  love,  and  told  me  to  say  that 
she  knew  everything  would  come  right  in  the  end." 

Guy  leant  forward,  unable  to  speak  for  a  moment  or  two. 
"  I'm  going  to  Paris  in  about  a  week  to  work  in  the 
schools,"  he  said  rather  huskily.  "  I'm  afraid  I've  wasted 
my  time.  I'm  not  worth  much.  But  one  can  try  and 
make  one's  self  worth  something." 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  that,  Guy,"  said  George  heartily. 
"  I  don't  know  much  about  painting,  but  I  believe  you've 
got  it  in  you  to  do  something,  and  I  think  that  every 
fellow  ought  to  make  the  most  of  what  he  can  do.  Besides, 
the  delectable  Richards  will  have  his  objections  met  if 
you  take  to  work  instead  of  play.  I  don't  believe  that 
objection  is  sincere.  The  fellow  is  so  wrapped  up  in 
mysteries  that  he  is  bound  to  have  a  crooked  reason  behind 
the  straight  one  he  may  have  hit  upon  to  confound  you 
with.  But  if  you  paint  a  few  pictures,  and  above  all,  if 
you  manage  to  sell  some  of  them,  you'll  take  him  on  his 


280  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

own  ground  and  beat  him.     And  I  can  tell  you  that  little 
Peggy  is  worth  working  for.     She's  got  a  heart  of  gold." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Guy.  "  I — I  suppose  she  is  up  in 
Scotland  still  ? " 

"  She  is  in  Glasgow,"  said  George,  "  living  in  a  little  six- 
roomed  house  with  her  father  as  her  only  companion.  His 
circle  of  acquaintance  is  not  a  wide  one,  as  you  may 
imagine  if  you  have  seen  him,  and  I  should  think  my  little 
sister  is  about  as  lonely  and  miserable  as  it  is  possible  for 
anybody  to  be.  I  wish  she  was  really  my  sister.  One  of 
the  bitterest  thoughts  I  have  of  that  man  is  that  he  has 
the  power  to  dispose  of  her  life  for  the  present,  and  I 
haven't,  although  I  have  been  much  closer  to  her  for  many 
years  than  he  has." 

Guy  sat  for  some  time  in  silence.  Then  he  said  with 
determination, "  Before  I  go  to  Paris,  I  shall  go  up  and  see 
him  again." 

"  It  won't  be  any  use,"  said  George.  "  You  don't  know 
your  Richards  as  I  do." 

"  Hang  it,"  said  Guy.  "  He  can't  be  entirely  destitute 
of  natural  affection.  If  he  can't  make  her  happy  himself, 
he  must  see,  unless  he's  a  fool  or  a  brute,  that  it's  his  duty 
to  let  somebody  else  try,  somebody  who  only  asks  to  be 
allowed  to  spend  his  life  in  trying." 

"  He  isn't  a  fool,"  said  George.  "  But  he  is  a  brute,  and 
he  won't  see  it." 

"  I'll  give  him  the  chance,"  said  Guy.  "  Things  are  in- 
tolerable as  they  are.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  her  up  there 
alone  with  him  while  we  are  enjoying  ourselves  here." 

"  I  shouldn't  be  here  if  I  could  be  with  her,"  said  George. 
"No  more  would  you.  I  shall  write  and  tell  her  every- 
thing. It  will  give  her  some  pleasure.  And  it  is  all  we 
can  do  for  her  at  present.  And  I'll  tell  her  that  you  are 
going  up  to  see  him.  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't.  I  don't 


MRS.  HERBERT   INTERVENES.          281 

suppose  he  will,  and  you  won't  go  to  his  house.  Yes,  go.  You 
won't  get  anything  out  of  him,  but  it  will  mean  a  good  deal 
to  her  to  know  that  you  have  gone.  Well,  young  Richard  ? " 
"  We  are  going  to  play  pool,"  said  Dicky,  who  had  burst 
into  the  room.  "  And  I  have  been  sent  to  fetch  everyone 
except  Uncle  Owen." 

No  young  man  under  the  spell  of  a  passion  of  which  he  has 
no  reason  to  be  ashamed,  unless  he  is  of  an  unusually  reserved 
disposition,  objects  to  making  a  confidante  of  a  sympathetic 
woman  much  older  than  himself.  There  were  three  young 
men  who  were  in  love  in  the  Christmas  party  at  Holling- 
bourne  Hall,  and  Mrs.  Herbert,  whose  large  heart  warmed 
especially  towards  youth,  managed  to  extract  their  stories 
from  the  lips  of  each  of  them.  The  story  of  young  Douglas 
did  not  want  much  extracting.  It  lay  patent  to  everyone 
under  the  roof  of  Hollingbourne  Hall.  But  even  he  was 
pleased  enough  to  confide  the  very  exiguous  obstacle  that 
lay  between  him  and  happiness  to  a  lady  who  evidently 
shared  as  far  as  was  desirable  under  the  circumstances  his 
warm  admiration  for  Miss  Celia  Conder.  Young  Douglas 
was  very  much  in  love  with  Celia,  and  she  with  him. 
There  was,  in  fact,  what  was  called  an  understanding 
between  them,  which  as  far  as  they  were  concerned  left 
nothing  to  be  desired  in  point  of  completeness.  And  young 
Douglas  was  the  only  son  of  a  rich  father.  But  herein  lay 
the  rub,  that  that  rich  father  had  brought  young  Douglas 
up  to  look  forward  to  marriage  with  a  lady  other  than 
Celia  Conder,  and  had  not  yet  been  induced  to  adapt  him- 
self to  the  circumstances  which  had  arisen  to  prevent  that 
alliance,  although  he  was  reported  to  be  coming  round. 
Until  he  had  completed  the  circle,  however,  a  recognised 
engagement  was  out  of  the  question,  and  young  Douglas 
felt  this  to  be  very  hard.  He  told  the  whole  story  to 


282  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

Mrs.  Herbert  of  his  own  accord  one  morning  when  Celia 
was  engaged  elsewhere,  and  she  said  what  was  kind  and 
encouraging,  and  sent  him  away  half  convinced  that 
matters  might  have  been  still  worse  with  him. 

Guy,  of  course,  having  been  continually  in  this  good 
lady's  company  during  his  visit  to  Merrilees,  was  on  terms 
of  intimacy  with  her.  He  had  already  told  her  as  much  as 
he  knew  himself  of  the  circumstances  surrounding  the  death 
of  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  and  the  disappearance  of  his 
fortune.  Mrs.  Herbert  had  shown  a  keen  interest  in  the 
story,  and  it  was  natural  that  on  meeting  her  again  he 
should  put  her  in  possession  of  the  new  facts  which  had 
been  the  outcome  of  Calthorp's  researches.  Mrs.  Herbert 
questioned  and  cross-questioned  him  and  showed  such  a 
grasp  of  the  details  of  what  was  known  of  the  mystery 
that  Guy  told  her  that  if  Calthorp  did  not  succeed  in 
running  the  culprit  Martin  to  earth  within  the  next  few 
weeks,  he  should  take  the  matter  out  of  his  hands  and  put 
it  into  hers.  The  talk  then  turned  on  Guy's  intentions,  and 
it  was  not  long  before  he  found  himself  telling  her  in  the 
fullest  possible  detail  all  about  his  meetings  with  Peggy  and 
his  interviews  with  Peggy's  father. 

Mrs.  Herbert  showed  the  keenest  interest  in  this  story  too, 
but,  somewhat  to  Guy's  surprise,  she  did  not  show  herself 
so  struck  with  amazement  at  the  absurdity  of  Mr.  Richards's 
reasons  for  refusing  him  as  might  have  been  expected,  not 
so  intolerant  of  them,  for  instance,  as  George  had  been. 

"  What  should  you  do,"  she  asked,  much  as  Mr.  Richards 
himself  might  have  asked,  "  if  you  were  obliged  to  work 
for  a  living  ?  " 

"  My  dear  lady !  "  exclaimed  Guy.  *'  Surely  you  are  not 
going  to  take  that  line  ?  If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst, 
and  I  never  get  my  own  back,  I  shall  be  quite  well  enough 
off.  I  shall  never  have  to  work  for  my  living." 


MRS.   HERBERT   INTERVENES.  283 

"  But  supposing  you  were  to  lose  your  money  ? "  she 
persisted.  "  More  unlikely  things  than  that  have  happened. 
What  should  you  do?" 

Guy  laughed.  "You  seem  as  determined  to  press  the 
point  as  Richards  was,"  he  said.  "  Well,  I  should  try  and 
paint  pictures  for  a  living.  Whether  I  should  succeed  in 
earning  my  bread  and  butter  or  not,  I  don't  know.  At  any 
rate,  I  am  going  to  try — not  to  earn  my  living,  exactly,  but 
to  paint."  And  he  told  her  of  his  plans. 

"  I  think  that  is  very  wise  of  you,"  she  said,  when  he  had 
finished.  "  And  I  hope  that  in  one  way,  if  not  in  another, 
it  will  bring  you  what  you  want.  She  must  be  a  dear  girl. 
I  am  sure  of  that  from  what  Mr.  Greenfield  has  told  me 
about  her.  I  can't  help  feeling  that  everything  will  come 
right  for  you  in  the  end,  Sir  Guy,  and,  you  know,  I  think 
that  if  this  disappointment  and  separation  had  not  come 
one  might  perhaps  have  thought  that  you  had  won  her  too 
easily.  Poor  girl,  it  is  sad  that  her  life  should  be  clouded 
in  this  way  now.  But  the  future,  if,  as  I  hope  and  trust, 
you  marry  her  in  the  end,  will  be  all  the  brighter.  And 
you  will  value  her  more." 

"  That's  impossible,"  said  Guy.  "  And,  oh,  how  I  do  long 
for  her !  " 

"Well,  you  must  work  and  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert. 
"Those  are  two  things  which  make  life  worth  living,  and 
none  of  us  can  do  without  them." 

"  Yes,  I  will.  It  does  one  good  to  talk  to  you,**  said 
Guy.  "And  it's  rather  a  nuisance  to  me  to  have  to  be 
secretive  about  anything.  I  should  prefer  that  all  the 
world  knew  what  I  was  doing." 

The  next  person  to  be  drawn  into  the  net  of  Mrs. 
Herbert's  sympathies  was  George.  That  very  busy  young 
man  found  it  impossible  at  this  time  of  the  year  to  allow 
himself  six  clear  days  away  from  his  papers,  and,  by  the  time 


284  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

that  the  day  on  which  the  shoot  had  been  fixed  came  round, 
work  that  had  to  be  done  had  accumulated  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  had  to  beg  for  a  whole  morning  entirely  to 
himself.  He  even  excused  himself  from  lunching  with  the 
guns,  and  as  Mrs.  Herbert  pleaded  a  cold  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  party,  including,  wonderful  to  relate,  Lord  Caradoc, 
set  out  soon  after  mid-day  to  walk  or  drive  to  the  farm- 
house where  the  luncheon  was  to  be,  Mrs.  Herbert  and 
George  were  left  to  eat  that  meal  at  home  in  company. 
When  it  was  over  Mrs.  Herbert  announced  that  she  should 
enjoy  the  novel  experience  of  making  herself  at  home  in  a 
smoking  room  for  half  an  hour,  and  they  sat  over  the  fire 
and  talked,  until  the  return  of  some  of  the  ladies  drove  her 
in  alarm  from  the  room,  and  sent  George  back  to  his 
papers. 

Mrs.  Herbert,  insatiable  in  her  desire  for  detail,  led 
George  on  to  talk  of  himself  and  his  mother  and  his 
sister,  and  when  the  name  of  Mr.  Richards  occurred  in  his 
recital  of  his  early  life  in  the  little  cottage  she  fixed  on  that 
and  plied  him  with  so  many  questions  of  dates  and  times 
and  seasons,  of  appearance  and  manner,  that  at  last  George 
said,  laughing  at  her  : 

"  Why,  you  seem  more  interested  in  that  portent  than  in 
all  the  rest  of  us  put  together." 

"  I  will  tell  you  why,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  seriously.  "  I 
hope  you  will  allow  me  to  call  myself  your  friend,  although 
we  have  known  each  other  only  a  short  time.  You  know 
the  very  intimate  position  in  which  I  stand  to  Lord  Caradoc 
and  to  Cicely,  who  is  almost  as  much  a  daughter  to  me  as 
your  little  Peggy  was  to  your  mother.  I  know — Lord 
Caradoc  has  told  me,  as  you  can  see  is  natural  under  the 
circumstances — of  your — your  hopes  with  regard  to  her,  and 
I  shall  not  be  breaking  any  confidences  by  telling  you  that  if 
the  secret  of  which  this  man  holds  the  key  proves  to  be  no 


MRS.  HERBERT   INTERVENES.  285 

obstacle — I  speak  very  plainly — Lord  Caradoc  would — how 
shall  I  say  it  ? — Well,  I  think  I  may  say  that  it  would  make 
him  contented  and  happy." 

"  You  make  me  very  happy  when  you  say  that,*  said 
George  in  a  low  voice. 

"You  see,"  continued  Mrs.  Herbert,  in  her  placid, even 
way,  "  that  I  am  not  actuated  by  mere  curiosity  in  asking 
you  all  these  questions.  You  will  not,  of  course,  think  that 
I  am  giving  you  more  encouragement  than  I  intend,  by  my 
words.  As  far  as  Cicely  herself  is  concerned  you  would 
still  have  to  win  her  if  everything  else  were  set  right.  It  is 
only  with  the  'everything  else'  that  we  can  concern 
ourselves.  And  that  is  why  I  am  anxious  to  know  all  you 
can  tell  me  about  this  man,  or  all  that  you  feel  inclined  to 
tell  me." 

"  I  will  tell  you  everything  that  I  can,"  said  George,  and 
Mrs.  Herbert  was  put  in  possession  of  a  pretty  vivid  picture  of 
Mr.  Richards  and  all  his  comings  and  goings  as  seen  through 
George's  eyes. 

"  There  is  another  reason,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  "  why  I 
wish  to  know  about  this  man.  I  am  interested  in  his 
daughter,  and  Sir  Guy  Bertram  has  told  me,  what  I  had 
already  guessed,  how  much  his  happiness  is  bound  up  in  her. 
You  do  not  mind,  I  hope,  his  making  a  confidante  of  a  very 
discreet  old  woman  like  myself  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  George.  "  Besides,  you  see  how  very 
slender  the  tie  is  that  binds  me  to  her,"  he  added  rather 
bitterly.  "  She  is  in  all  respects  my  sister,  except  that  I  am 
quite  unable  to  help  her  at  all  in  her  unhappiness.  I  could 
have  nothing  to  say  if  Bertram  chose  to  tell  his  story  to 
everybody  in  this  house.  But,  as  I  do  look  upon  her  as  my 
sister  in  spite  of  that,  I  am  very  glad  he  has  told  you." 

"  And  if  it  were  for  you  to  decide  you  would  be  pleased 
that  she  should  marry  him  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Herbert. 


286  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

u  Yes,"  said  George.  "  I  should.  I  have  always  been 
fond  of  Bertram.  He  is  idle,  of  course,  but  that's  about 
the  worst  you  can  say  of  him,  and  I  don't  think  his  idleness 
has  done  him  as  much  harm  as — as  it  would  have  done  me, 
for  instance.  Besides,"  he  added,  "  he  tells  me  he  is  going 
to  be  idle  no  longer.  And  if  he  really  takes  to  working  I 
think  he  will  be  about  as  good  a  chap  as  you  could  find 
in  England.  Yes,  I  think  Peggy  stands  a  very  good  chance 
of  happiness  with  Guy  Bertram." 

Mrs.  Herbert  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  she 
said,  "  I  shall  be  going  to  Scotland  for  about  a  week  or 
two  at  about  the  end  of  January  to  visit  some  of  my 
relations.  Would  you  like  me  to  go  and  see  your  sister  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would,"  said  George.  "  It  would  be 
one  of  the  kindest  things  you  could  do.  She  scarcely  sees 
anyone  but  her  father  from  one  week's  end  to  another.  It 
would  give  her  real  pleasure." 

'*  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert.  "  I  wonder  whether  her 
father  would  let  her  come  to  us  at  Merrilees  for  a  week  or 
so.  Lord  Caradoc  is  so  taken  with  the  place  that  we  are 
going  up  there  again  I  think  early  in  March.  We  should 
be  very  quiet,  but  she  would  not  mind  that." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  Richards  would  let  her  come," 
said  George.  "  I  don't  know  why  he  shouldn't,  but  you 
can  never  tell  what  he  will  do.  It  would  be  something  for 
her  to  look  forward  to." 

M I  shall  try  and  see  that  mysterious  Mr.  Richards  when  I 
go  to  Glasgow,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert  with  a  smile.  "  Perhaps 
I  may  be  able  to  persuade  him." 

*'  If  you  succeed,"  said  George,  "  your  invitation  will  give 
as  much  pleasure  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine." 

The  ball  at  Hollingbourne  Hall,  which  took  place  on 
one  of  the  last  nights  of  the  old  year,  brought  the  merry 


MRS.  HERBERT  INTERVENES.  287 

Christmas  party  to  an  end.  It  was  a  triumph  for  Cicely, 
who  went  through  the  night  in  a  sort  of  maze  of  popularity 
and  admiration.  All  the  smart  young  men  in  their  pink 
coats  and  high  collars  crowded  round  her  suing  for  her 
favours,  and  if  she  had  been  so  minded  she  could  have 
divided  each  of  her  dances  amongst  a  dozen  different 
partners.  There  was  no  one  who  was  prouder  of  the  admira- 
tion she  elicited  than  her  fellow  debutante,  Florence  Conder, 
whose  modest  charms  were  quite  eclipsed  by  those  of  her 
cousin.  On  the  next  day  the  party  broke  up  and  went 
their  several  ways  to  face  whatever  of  happiness  or  sorrow 
the  new  year  might  bring  them. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

PEGGY  AND   HER   FATHER. 

THE  only  thing  to  record  before  making  a  jump  of  two 
months  and  coming  to  the  closing  events  of  our  story  is 
Guy  Bertram's  second  journey  to  Glasgow.  He  did  not 
announce  his  visit  to  Mr.  Richards,  fearing  that  the  only 
result  of  such  an  announcement  would  be  a  curt  refusal  to 
see  him.  He  found  himself  again  standing  in  the  outer 
office,  with  the  name  of  McDougall,  Richards  &  Co.  writ 
large  on  the  ground  glass  of  the  door,  while  he  waited 
with  some  trepidation  the  answer  that  might  be  brought 
to  him  from  the  inner  room  into  which  his  card  had  just 
been  taken.  The  answer,  delivered  by  an  elderly  clerk 
with  a  broad  roll  of  the  tongue,  was,  "  Will  you  be  pleased 
to  walk  in,  sir  ?  "  and  Guy  presented  himself  once  more 
before  Mr.  Richards,  who,  somewhat  to  his  surprise,  rose  to 
shake  hands  with  him  before  signing  him  to  a  chair  that 
stood  facing  his  writing  table. 

Guy  found  himself  at  a  loss  for  words,  and  Mr.  Richards 
gave  him  no  help  as  he  sat  before  him,  his  heavy  eyebrows 
bent  on  his  unexpected  visitor. 

"  I  am  leaving  England  immediately  for  some  months," 
Guy  began.  "When  I  left  Cambridge  about  five  years 
ago  I  had  some  intention  of  becoming  an  artist.  But  the 
allowance  which  I  received  from  my  cousin  gave  me  enough 
to  live  on  and — well,  I  found  life  went  rather  pleasantly,  and 
took  no  steps  to  prepare  myself  to  study  painting  seriously. 
Now  I  am  going  to  Paris  to  work  in  the  schools  and  do 


PEGGY  AND   HER   FATHER.  289 

what  I  can  to  make  a  success  in  the  only  career  that  seems 
to  be  open  to  me.  I — I  made  up  my  mind  to  see  you 
before  leaving  England,  to  ask  whether  this  intention  will 
make  any  difference  in  the  answer  you  gave  me  three 
months  ago." 

Mr.  Richards  did  not  speak  at  once.  He  appeared  to  be 
thinking  hard,  as  he  sat  with  his  eyes  on  the  papers  in  front 
of  him. 

"  What  chance  have  you  got  of  earning  your  living  as  an 
artist  ? "  he  asked  at  last. 

A  momentary  spurt  of  impatience  came  over  Guy.  A 
living !  He  already  had  a  good  living,  to  say  nothing  of 
still  existent  possibilities.  What  did  the  man  want  ? 

"  I  haven't  thought  of  it  in  that  light,"  he  said.  "  As  I 
told  you,  I  am  quite  well  enough  off  not  to  be  obliged  to 
work  for  my  living.  I  shall  try  to  fit  myself  for  this  pro- 
fession—or whatever  you  like  to  call  it,  because  it  gives  me 
an  object  in  life,  and  I  think  your  idea  is  that  every  man 
ought  to  have  some  work  to  do  in  the  world." 

"Yes.  That's  very  good  as  far  as  it  goes,"  said  Mr. 
Richards.  "  Still,  I  repeat  my  question,  and  if  you  want 
to  continue  the  discussion  you  had  better  give  me  as 
definite  an  answer  as  you  can." 

"  What  do  you  call  a  living  ?  "  asked  Guy  with  a  slight 
tone  of  contempt  in  his  voice. 

"  Let's  say  five  hundred  a  year,"  said  Mr.  Richards. 

Guy  thought  for  a  moment.  "  It  is  so  difficult  to  say," 
he  said.  "  There  are  ways,  I  should  think,  in  which  one 
might  be  able  to  earn  such  an  income  as  that — if  it  were 
necessary.  But  one  would  have  to  change  one's  aims,  and 
to  a  certain  extent  lower  them.  I  should  like  to  go  for  the 
big  things,  and  if  I  failed  I  should  probably  fail  altogether. 
If  my  aim  were  to  make  a  certain  amount  of  money  every 
year  I  should  have  to  devote  myself  to  lesser  things.  I 

H.M.  U 


290  THE   HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

should  work  as  hard  in  either  case,  but  in  the  one  there 
would  be  something  inspiring  and  not  in  the  other." 

"  Well,  I  can  understand  that,"  said  Mr.  Richards.  "  I'm 
not  a  fool  and  I'm  not  as  unreasonable  as  you  think  I  am. 
I  suppose  for  the  next  few  months,  whether  you  want  to 
make  money  or  not,  you  would  be  going  through  the  same 
course  of  study.** 

"  Yes,"  said  Guy. 

"  Very  well,  then,'*  said  Mr.  Richards.  "  We'll  leave  it 
there  for  the  present.  Your  intention  does  make  some 
difference.  I  wouldn't  have  my  daughter  marry  an  idler. 
I'll  let  the  question  stand  over,  and  you  can  come  and  talk 
to  me  again  when  you  are  ready  to  start  work  on  your 
own  account.  In  the  meantime  things  remain  as  they  are, 
and  I  keep  you  to  your  promise." 

"Will  you  tell  your  daughter  what  you  have  said  to 
me  ?  "  asked  Guy. 

Mr.  Richards  frowned  and  looked  down.  There  was  an 
unwonted  hesitation  in  his  manner. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  presently,  "  I  will  tell  her  " ;  and  then  he 
stood  up  and  held  out  his  hand.  "  Good-bye,"  he  said. 
"  Stick  to  it  and  work  hard.  You'll  be  the  better  man  for 
it,  and  I've  nothing  against  you,  whatever  you  may  think, 
except  that  you've  never  done  anything." 

After  Guy  had  left  him  Mr.  Richards  sat  before  his  table 
for  a  long  time  doing  nothing  himself,  although  it  was  a 
busy  time  with  his  firm.  He  went  home  about  seven  o'clock 
and  let  himself  into  the  narrow  hall  of  his  house.  Peggy 
came  to  the  door  of  the  downstairs  sitting-room  to  welcome 
him.  She  looked  thin  and  pale  and  older  than  her  years, 
but  there  was  a  steadfast  look  in  her  eyes  which  told  of 
sorrows  bravely  faced,  and  a  burden  bravely  borne.  There 
was  no  antagonism  in  her  manner  as  she  put  her  hands  on 
her  father's  shoulder  and  kissed  him,  and  his  bearing 


PEGGY  AND  HER  FATHER.  agi 

towards  her  had  something  of  tenderness  and  protection, 
\vlich  might  have  given  George  Greenfield  food  for  thought 
if  he  had  witnessed  the  greeting  between  father  and  daughter. 

After  their  evening  meal  they  sat  together  in  the  little 
parlour,  Peggy  with  her  work-basket  on  the  table  by  her 
side,  and  her  father  in  an  armchair  glowering  into  the  fire. 
Peggy  was  very  silent  in  these  days.  Her  vivacity  seemed 
to  have  forsaken  her,  and  indeed  there  was  no  one  on 
whom  she  could  very  well  have  exercised  it  without 
arousing  surprise  and  perhaps  resentment. 

Presently  Mr.  Richards  raised  his  head  and  looked  at 
her  long  and  earnestly.  He  had  often  done  so  since  the 
time  they  had  first  lived  together,  and  although  Peggy  felt 
his  eyes  upon  her  she  made  no  sign  and  kept  hers  bent 
upon  her  needlework.  If  she  had  met  her  father's  gaze  she 
might  have  seen  something  unusual  in  it  to-night,  a  soft- 
ness that  sat  strangely  on  that  hard  face,  even  the  hint  of 
a  yearning,  the  desire  of  a  lonely  man  for  an  affection  and 
a  response  which  he  had  done  nothing  to  call  forth. 

After  a  time  he  spoke  to  her.  His  tone  was  harsh,  but 
his  face  was  not. 

"  Do  you  want  to  leave  me  ?  "  he  asked  her. 

Peggy  raised  her  head  and  met  his  look.  Something  in 
his  eyes  made  her  bend  hers  again  on  her  work. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  leave  you  as  long  as  I  feel  that  you 
like  to  have  me  here,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  I  do  like  to  have  you  here,"  said  her  father.  "  You  are 
a  good  girl  and  a  good  daughter.  I  haven't  said  much. 
It  isn't  my  way.  But — well,  you've  shown  me  what  it  is 
to  have  a  home.  And  that  is  what  I  have  never  known." 

Peggy  was  silent.  She  had  done  what  she  could  and 
done  it  courageously  and  dutifully.  But  the  word  "  home  " 
meant  something  very  real  to  her  if  it  had  been  nothing  to 
her  father,  and  it  had  meant*"something  very  different  to 

0  9 


aga  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

the  gloomy  little  house  in  which  she  now  spent  most  of  her 
days  alone. 

"  I  know  the  way  I  have  treated  you  must  seem  hard  and 
unreasonable,"  continued  Mr.  Richards.  "  I  can't  help  it, 
and  I  can't  tell  you  my  reasons  for  it.  Some  day  perhaps 
you  will  understand  why  I  couldn't  give  my  consent  at  the 
time  to  your  marrying  that  young  man  who  came  and 
asked  me  for  you." 

It  was  the  first  time  Mr.  Richards  had  ever  alluded  to 
Guy  in  Peggy's  hearing  since  his  peremptory  dismissal  of 
his  suit.  It  was  too  much  for  her.  She  kept  her  head 
bent  over  her  work,  but  her  hands  trembled  and  she  could 
see  nothing  of  what  she  was  doing. 

"  I  have  seen  him  again,"  said  Mr.  Richards.  "  He  is 
going  to  become  a  great  painter,  it  seems.  I  don't  know 
whether  he  has  it  in  him  to  be  something  great.  I  should 
think  not.  At  any  rate  he  is  going  to  try,  and  that  shows 
he's  got  some  of  the  right  stuff  in  him.  I  have  told  him  he 
may  come  and  see  me  again  in  a  few  months'  time.  Don't 
hope  too  much.  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  be  able  to  give 
my  consent  to  your  marrying  him  after  all.  But  if  I  can  I 
will.  I  want  to  make  you  happy.  I  have  done  as  much  as  I 
could  for  you  up  till  now,  though  you  may  not  think  it.  And 
I'm  doing  now  what  I've  never  done  in  my  life  before.  I'm 
changing  my  plans.  You  can  hope  a  little,  but  don't  hope 
too  much." 

The  pretence  of  work  could  be  carried  on  no  longer.  Peggy 
put  her  hands  on  the  table  and  bent  her  dark  head  over  them, 
crying  over  the  gleam  of  happiness  that  was  breaking  on  her 
as  she  had  so  often  cried  of  late  over  the  dark  clouds  which 
seemed  to  be  enveloping  her  whole  life. 

"  Come  here,  my  girl,"  said  Mr.  Richards.  She  rose  and 
knelt  by  his  side.  He  drew  her  to  him,  and  she  rested  hei 
head  on  her  father's  breast  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MRS.   HERBERT  VISITS   GLASGOW. 

THE  month  of  March,  following  a  mild  February,  came  in 
like  the  proverbial  lamb.  The  daffodils  were  already 
preparing  to  unfold  their  yellow  trumpets  in  the  sheltered 
woodland  hollows  round  the  house  of  Merrilees,  and  the 
primroses  had  as  yet  no  reason  to  regret  an  unusually 
early  appearance.  In  the  early  days  of  the  month  Lord 
Caradoc  moved  his  household  from  Berkeley  Square  and 
settled  down  once  more  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  books  and 
his  flowers  in  the  beautiful  place  to  which  his  thoughts 
had  persistently  turned  during  the  two  months  he  had  spent 
in  London. 

Lord  Caradoc  had  not  been  well  in  London.  His  short 
illness  of  the  previous  autumn  had  left  a  weakness  from 
which  he  had  never  entirely  recovered.  But  he  had  had  the 
enjoyment  of  seeing  the  great  book  which  he  and  George 
Greenfield  had  prepared  for  the  press  through  the  final  stages 
of  proof-correction,  and  now  lived  in  the  glamour  of  the 
chorus  of  wonder  and  admiration  which  the  publication  of 
so  monumental  a  work  had  evoked  from  the  learned,  the 
political,  and  the  general  reading  world.  The  publication  of 
Sir  Roderick  Bertram's  great  history  naturally  aroused  anew 
the  interest  in  his  life  and  the  mysterious  occurrences  which 
had  followed  his  death,  and  when  it  seemed  likely  that  a 
recrudescence  of  excitement  on  those  very  trivial  affairs 
would  for  the  moment  obscure  the  fame  of  the  book  he  had 
spent  the  best  part  of  his  life  in  compiling,  Lord  Caradoc 


294  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

left  the  newspapers  to  write  and  the  clubs  and  drawing- 
rooms  to  talk,  and  retired  to  the  rain-washed  spaciousness 
of  the  Cumberland  hills. 

The  day  on  which  Lord  Caradoc  with  Cicely  and  Mrs. 
Herbert  journeyed  north  was  cold  and  wet.  On  the 
following  day  the  sunshine  and  mildness  of  the  premature 
spring  had  returned,  but  Lord  Caradoc  was  laid  up  with  a 
bad  chill  and  was  unable  to  enjoy  the  delights  of  the  open 
air,  to  which  he  had  been  looking  forward  during  his  late 
sojourn  amongst  the  bricks  and  mortar  of  London.  He  was 
not  a  very  old  man,  but  neither  was  he  a  very  strong  one. 
He  had  led  a  confined  and  studious  life,  and  the  strain  to 
which  he  had  often  put  his  intellect  and  his  powers  of  work 
was  beginning  to  tell  on  him.  He  lay  in  his  pleasant  south- 
ward-facing room  while  the  sun  and  the  mild  moist  air 
streamed  in  through  the  open  window,  inviting  him  to  a  share 
in  those  opening  wonders  of  nature  which  he  loved  only  a 
little  less  than  his  books  and  his  studies,  and  he  was  disturbed 
and  restless  because  he  could  not  respond  to  the  invitation. 

Mrs.  Herbert,  calm,  adroit  and  resourceful,  made  a  sick 
nurse  to  whom  any  invalid  might  be  proud  to  attribute  a 
recovery.  But  even  she  was  unable  to  allay  his  irritation. 
Lord  Caradoc  fussed  and  Lord  Caradoc  grumbled,  but  he  did 
not  throw  off  his  indisposition,  and  at  the  end  of  the  third 
day  he  was  still  confined  to  his  room.  By  that  time, 
however,  he  had  formulated  a  definite  desire.  He  wanted  the 
companionship  of  George  Greenfield,  and  Mrs.  Herbert  wrote 
off  an  urgent  summons  to  that  very  busy  young  man  to 
come  up  to  Men  ilees  at  once,  even  if  he  could  only  spare  a 
few  days.  Lord  Caradoc  was  really  ill,  she  said,  although 
in  his  present  surroundings  there  was  nothing  to  prevent 
him  from  making  a  quick  and  complete  recovery  if  his  mind 
could  be  kept  at  ease.  George's  companionship  has  become 
necessary  to  him,  and  at  present  it  seemed  to  be  the  only 


MRS.  HERBERT   VISITS  GLASGOW.      295 

thing  that  he  ardently  desired.  George  replied  that  he 
would  come  two  days  later,  and  stay  for  some  time.  The 
morning  after  his  letter  reached  Merrilees  Lord  Caradoc 
came  down  to  the  library,  and  on  the  following  day  he  was 
busying  himself  in  his  Alpine  garden. 

During  the  last  two  months  George  had  been  constantly 
at  the  house  in  Berkeley  Square.  His  co-operation  had  been 
necessary  in  seeing  the  History  through  the  press,  but  Lord 
Caradoc  had  come  to  rely  on  him  more  and  more  and  never 
•eemed  completely  content,  or  as  near  content  as  he  could 
be  in  London,  unless  George  was  with  him  or  near  him. 
Enough  has  been  said  of  his  character  to  show  that  he  was 
entirely  incapable  of  maintaining  a  continuous  hold  on  the 
ordinary  affairs  of  daily  life,  and  it  never  seemed  to  occur 
to  him  that  it  was  in  any  way  unusual  that  he  should 
eagerly  welcome  to  his  house  and  to  the  companionship  of 
his  little  circle  a  man  who  had  asked  his  permission  to  pay 
his  addresses  to  his  daughter,  a  permission  which  he  had 
refused.  That  little  matter  had  probably  passed  out  of  his 
mind.  But  it  had  not  passed  out  of  George's,  nor  out  of 
Mrs.  Herbert's.  That  usually  astute  woman  showed  a  surpris- 
ing lack  of  judgment  if  she  thought,  as  she  appeared  to  think, 
that  it  was  possible  for  a  young  man  to  occupy  a  position 
almost  as  intimate  as  that  of  a  near  relation  in  the  house  and  to 
move  neither  backwards  nor  forwards  in  his  attitude  towards 
a  girl  with  whom  he  had  acknowledged  himself  ardently  in 
love.  George  was  young  enough  and  had  sufficient  confi- 
dence in  himself  to  believe  that  he  could  come  and  go  u 
Lord  Caradoc's  trusted  friend  and  maintain  the  attitude 
which  he  had  marked  out  for  himself  with  regard  to  Cicely 
without  budging  an  inch.  Of  course  he  did  nothing  of  the 
sort.  Of  course  he  fell  more  and  more  deeply  in  love  with 
her  every  day,  and  of  course  he  made  love  to  her  in  a  way 
that  was  all  the  more  dangerous  because  he  had  no  sort  of  idea 


296  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

that  he  was  making  love  at  all,  and  exercised  a  degree  of 
self-control  in  her  presence  that  caused  him  the  most 
exquisite  discomfort.  Mrs.  Herbert  saw  this  going  on  under 
her  eyes  for  two  whole  months  without  making  the  slightest 
attempt  to  stop  it.  It  really  seemed  as  if  she  were  more 
culpable  in  the  matter  than  Lord  Caradoc  himself. 

Now  that  Lord  Caradoc  was  apparently  in  a  fair  way  to 
complete  recovery  from  his  indisposition,  and,  in  the 
pleasure  of  George  Greenfield's  companionship,  might 
safely  be  expected  to  do  without  her  fostering  care  for  a 
week  or  two,  Mrs.  Herbert  put  into  execution  her  project 
of  paying  a  visit  to  her  relations  in  Scotland.  She 
journeyed  to  Glasgow,  and  before  going  further  north 
slept  a  night  in  that  city  in  order  that  she  might  call  on 
Peggy,  and,  if  possible,  interview  the  redoubtable  Mr. 
Richards  on  the  following  day.  George  Greenfield  had 
arrived  at  Merrilees  on  the  day  before  her  departure,  and 
she  had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  as  she  travelled  north 
that  she  had  left  everything  well  there,  although  when  he 
was  not  in  Lord  Caradoc's  company  the  only  inmate  of 
the  house  who  could  bear  George  company  was  Cicely. 

Soon  after  breakfast  Mrs.  Herbert  went  out  to  the  offices 
of  Messrs.  McDougall,  Richards  &  Co.  George  had 
given  her  Mr.  Richards's  private  address,  as  well  as  that 
of  his  firm,  but  she  may  have  wished  to  satisfy  herself  of 
his  accuracy,  for  she  simply  asked  of  the  clerk  at  the 
counter  to  be  directed  to  the  house  in  which  his  chief 
resided. 

"  Mr.  Richards  is  in  the  office  if  you  wish  to  see  him,** 
said  the  clerk. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert.    "  I  do  not  know  Mi 
Richards.     It  is  his  daughter  I  wish  to  see." 

When  she  had  made  a  note  of  the  address  that  was  given 
her,  she  asked  a  question. 


MRS.  HERBERT  VISITS  GLASGOW.       297 

"  How  long  has  Mr.  Richards  been  living  in  Glasgow  ?  " 
she  said. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  clerk,  "  but  he  became  A 
member  of  this  firm  last  summer." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  and  went  away. 

Peggy  was  at  home,  and  when  her  visitor  introduced 
herself  the  look  of  pleasure  which  came  into  her  face  would 
have  repaid  that  good  lady  if  she  had  travelled  all  the  way 
up  to  Glasgow  on  purpose  to  see  her.  Mrs.  Herbert  told 
her  about  George  and  of  how  his  presence  and  co-operation 
were  valued  by  Lord  Caradoc.  Then  she  talked  of  Guy  in 
such  a  way  that  Peggy  must  have  divined  that  she  knew 
her  story,  although  she  did  not  say  so  in  so  many  words. 
The  increase  of  animation  in  the  girl's  face  and  manner 
•went  to  show  that  Mrs.  Herbert  was  an  extremely  tactful 
woman.  Then  she  went  on  to  talk  of  Cicely  and  of  the 
glories  of  Merrilees  and  ended  by  inviting  Peggy  to  return 
with  her  after  her  round  of  visits  should  be  completed  to 
stay  there  for  a  fortnight.  Peggy  was  plainly  delighted  at 
the  idea,  but  was  not  certain  of  being  able  to  obtain  her 
father's  permission.  At  this  point  Mr.  Richards  himself 
came  into  the  room.  He  had  returned  to  the  house  to  fetch 
some  papers  which  he  had  forgotten,  but  the  hand  of 
Providence  must  have  led  him,  for  he  had  never  done  such 
a  thing  before.  He  looked  surprised  and  a  little  dis- 
concerted at  finding  a  strange  lady  with  his  daughter. 
This  also  was  a  thing  not  common  in  the  Richards  house- 
hold. Mrs.  Herbert  introduced  herself. 

"  I  have  come  from  a  house,"  she  said,  "  where  Mr. 
Greenfield  is  now  staying.  I  have  known  him  for  some 
time,  and  as  I  was  on  my  way  north  I  thought  I  should 
like  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  your  daughter,  of  whom 
I  have  heard  a  great  deal.  And,  if  possible,  your  acquaint* 
ance,  too,  Mr.  Richards." 


298  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

Mr.  Richards  still  looked  at  a  loss.  "May  I  ask  the 
name  of  the  house  ?  "  he  said. 

"  The  House  of  Merrilees,"  replied  Mrs.  Herbert.  "  May 
I  have  a  few  words  with  you  alone  ?  Peggy,  my  dear,  I 
shall  see  you  again  before  I  go." 

Peggy  left  the  room  and  Mr.  Richards  seated  himself 
opposite  his  visitor.  He  had  not  spoken  since  her 
announcement. 

"I  think  we  have  met  before,  many  years  ago,"  said  Mrs. 
Herbert,  "  although  you  will  probably  not  remember  me." 

A  curious  change  came  over  Mr.  Richards's  face.  It  was 
perplexed  and  anxious,  and  he  sat  steadily  regarding  his 
visitor  as  if  he  were  striving  to  recall  her  identity,  but 
striving  in  vain. 

**  I  do  not  know  your  name,"  he  said. 

"I  am  the  widow  of  Colonel  Arthur  Herbert,**  she 
replied,  "  who  died  seventeen  years  ago.  We  were  on  our 
honeymoon  in  Italy  twenty-five  years  ago,  and  we  met " 

*  I  have  never  been  in  Italy,"  interrupted  Mr.  Richards 
brusquely. 

"  Then  I  must  have  made  a  mistake,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert 
in  her  calm,  even  way.  "  And  certainly  the — the  gentle- 
man I  met  there,  who  was  so  singularly  like  you,  had  a 
different  name.  And  another  curious  thing  is  that  I 
remember  meeting  Mrs.  Greenfield  at  the  same  time,  and 
this  gentleman  was  much  in  her  company.  So  you  must 
forgive  me  if  I  have  made  a  mistake  with  such  a  curious 
set  of  coincidences." 

"  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Greenfield  of  late  years  ?  **  inquired 
Mr.  Richards. 

"I  have  not  seen  her  since  that  time,"  replied  Mrs. 
Herbert,  "but  I  have  seen  a  photograph  of  her,  and  I 
recognised  it  instantly.  I  have  also  heard  a  great  deal 
about  her  life  since  those  days,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  hear 


MRS.  HERBERT  VISITS  GLASGOW.       299 

that  until  the  last  few  months  it  was  a  peaceful  and 
happy  one  and  that  she  had  escaped  some  of  her  early 
troubles." 

Mr.  Richards  took  no  notice  of  this  speech. 

"  And  what  may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  doing  for  you, 
Mrs.  Herbert  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  near  approach  to  his 
business  manner. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  "  I  shall  be  very 
glad  if  you  will  allow  your  daughter  to  pay  a  visit  to  us  at 
Merrilees  when  I  return  there  in  about  a  fortnight's  time. 
Mr.  Greenfield,  as  you  may  know,  is  working  with  Lord 
Caradoc,  who  has  taken  a  great  liking  to  him,  and  he 
will  be  at  Merrilees  probably  for  the  next  month.  Lord 
Caradoc  and  Miss  Caradoc  would  be  very  pleased  to  see 
your  daughter  then,  and  I  would  take  the  greatest  care 
of  her." 

"  May  I  ask  why  you  want  my  daughter  to  go  to 
Merrilees  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Richards. 

Mrs.  Herbert  showed  no  signs  of  surprise  at  this  ex- 
traordinary question.  "  For  the  reason  I  have  told  you," 
she  said.  "  We  have  heard  a  great  deal  of  her  from  Mr. 
Greenfield,  and  we  should  like  to  have  her  with  us  for 
a  week  or  two  while  he  is  there." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Mr.  Richards, "  but  I  am  afraid 
I  must  decline  your  invitation  for  her." 

"May  I,  in  my  turn,  ask  why  you  should  object  to 
her  coming  to  us  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Herbert. 

"She  is  living  with  me  here  —  you  see  how,"  said 
Mr.  Richards  with  a  movement  of  his  hands  to  indicate 
the  appointments  of  the  common-place  little  room.  "It 
would  be  taking  her  out  of  her  position  for  her  to  visit  at  a 
house  like  Merrilees." 

**  Do  you  know  Merrilees  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Herbert. 

"Everybody  knows  it  by  repute,"  he  replied,     "I  am 


300  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

a  business  man  with  a  good  position  as  such,  but  it  would 
not  be  fitting  that  my  daughter  should  visit  at  the  house  of 
a  nobleman." 

"  We  live  in  a  very  quiet  way,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  "  and 
I  think  we  could  make  your  daughter  happy.  I  hope  you 
will  reconsider  your  decision." 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  he  said  decisively,  "  but  I  am  obliged 
to  you  for  your  invitation." 

Mrs.  Herbert  looked  at  him  closely,  and  although  he  met 
her  gaze,  it  was  plain  that  he  was  not  altogether  at  ease 
under  her  scrutiny. 

"  There  is  another  matter  I  should  like  to  discuss  with 
you,**  she  said.  "  I  do  not  know  whether  you  know  the 
position  I  hold  in  Lord  Caradoc's  family.  Probably  not.  I 
have  lived  with  them  ever  since  the  death  of  my  husband, 
and  Lord  Caradoc's  daughter  has  known  no  other  mother 
but  me.  This  must  explain  my  interest  in  the  proposal  of 
marriage  which  George  Greenfield  made  to  Lord  Caradoc 
for  his  daughter." 

Mr.  Richards  was  visibly  startled.  "George  Greenfield 
wants  to  marry  Lord  Caradoc's  daughter  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

«  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert.     "  Hasn't  he  told  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Richards,  and  then  added,  **  Why 
should  he  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  the  reason  why  he  might 
have  told  you  was  obvious,"  replied  Mrs.  Herbert. 
"  Lord  Caradoc,  as  I  have  said,  is  much  attached  to 
George  Greenfield,  and  I  may  go  as  far  as  to  say  that  he 
would  welcome  him  as  a  son-in-law  if  the  mystery  of 
his  birth  were  satisfactorily  cleared  up.  That  secret, 
Mr.  Greenfield  has  told  us,  is  in  your  hands,  and  yours 
alone.  And  until  you  choose  to  divulge  it  this  young  man, 
who  has  made  such  a  fine  start  in  life  with  none  of  the 
advantages  of  birth  or  high  connections  to  help  him,  must 


MRS.  HERBERT  VISITS  GLASGOW.       301 

be  content  to  rest  under  what  I  am  assured  is  a  perfectly 
undeserved  stigma." 

"  What  stigma  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Richards. 

"  I  mean,"  she  replied,  "  that  however  high  an  opinion 
Lord  Caradoc  may  have  of  George  Greenfield's  personal 
character — and  he  has  a  very  high  one  indeed — and  how- 
ever willing  he  may  be  to  put  aside  all  questions  of 
worldly  position,  he  would  not  consider  it  right  to  allow 
his  daughter  to  marry  a  man  who  for  all  he  or  anyone 
knows  may  be  of  illegitimate  birth." 

"  George  Greenfield  is  not  of  illegitimate  birth,"  replied 
Mr.  Richards. 

"  What  proof  can  he  show  Lord  Caradoc  of  that  ? "  asked 
Mrs.  Herbert.  "  He  knows  nothing  of  his  birth.  He  is 
allowed  to  know  nothing." 

"  He  will  know  everything  in  time,"  Mr.  Richards 
answered  as  if  he  were  seeking  for  time  to  adjust  his 
thoughts  to  the  information  which  had  come  to  him.  He 
spoke  hurriedly,  and  as  if  he  were  on  the  defensive. 

"In  time,"  repeated  Mrs.  Herbert.  "When  will  he 
know  ?  Next  week,  or  in  ten  years,  or  after  your  death, 
or  when?  Is  it  fair — is  it  right  to  keep  a  man  of  his 
age  and  of  his  abilities  in  this  uncertainty?  When  will 
he  know  ?  " 

"I  have  told  him  that  he  will  know.  I  have  never 
told  him  when.  And  I  shall  not  do  so  until  the  time 
comes." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Mrs.  Herbert  sat  with  her  eyes 
on  the  ground,  Mr.  Richards  eyeing  her  every  now  and  then 
as  if  he  were  waiting  for  some  sort  of  ultimatum,  and 
waiting  for  it  with  some  misgiving.  At  last  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  his  and  said  slowly,  "  I  think  I  know  the  secret  of 
George  Greenfield's  birth." 


302  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  It  is  impossible  that  anyone  should  know  it  except 
myself,"  answered  Mr.  Richards  instantly.  But  although 
he  spoke  boldly  there  was  anxiety  in  his  face. 

"  Perhaps  we  use  the  word  knowledge  in  different  senses,** 
she  replied.  "  Say  that  I  only  guess  the  story,  if  you  like. 
And  say  that  I  only  guess  other  things.  Would  you,  do 
you  think,  be  able  to  keep  all  your  secrets  if  I  carried  my 
guesses  to  other  people  ?  " 

Mr.  Richards  rose  from  his  seat.  **  If  you  carry  your 
guesses  to  anyone  outside  this  room,"  he  said,  "  the  secret 
of  George  Greenfield's  birth  will  never  be  known." 

"You  mean  that  you  will  destroy  the  proofs,"  said 
Mrs.  Herbert,  in  no  way  disconcerted.  "Would  you  be 
content  to  spend  the  rest  of  your  life  in  prison,  Mr. 
Richards  ?  " 

The  man  stood  over  her  glaring  at  her  with  fierce  eyes 
from  under  his  heavy  brows.  One  would  have  said  that 
Mrs.  Herbert's  serenity  was  in  danger  of  being  somewhat 
rudely  disturbed. 

"  How  much  do  you  know  ?  *'  he  asked  roughly. 

Then  Mrs.  Herbert  delivered  her  ultimatum. 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  "  or  you  can  call  it  guessing,  if  you 
like,  what  I  shall  keep  entirely  to  myself  for  another 
month  from  to-day.  That  will  give  you  time  to  end  all 
this  mystery  and  to  set  things  straight.  I  will  keep  silent 
for  a  month  because,  unless  I  am  obliged,  I  do  not  wish  to 
mix  myself  up  in  the  notoriety  that  is  bound  to  come  from 
the  disclosures  that  will  be  made.  And  for  your  daughter's 
sake  and  that  of  the  young  man  who  has  won  her  love—- 
you see,  I  know  a  good  many  of  your  secrets,  Mr.  Richards 
— I  do  not  wish  to  bring  trouble  upon  you.  I  promise 
then,  for  the  present,  not  to  take  any  steps  on  my  own 
account  to  clear  up  these  mysteries,  but  I  must  make  one 
small  condition.'* 


MRS.  HERBERT  VISITS  GLASGOW.       303 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Richards. 

M  That  you  will  let  your  daughter  come  with  me  to 
Merrilees  when  I  return  in  a  fortnight's  time." 

"  She  can  go,"  said  Mr.  Richards  ungraciously. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  send  her  to 
me  and  we  can  make  our  arrangements,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert, 
gathering  her  small  belongings  to  her. 

Mr.  Richards  left  the  room  without  another  word. 

Although  the  fame  of  his  learning  was  spread  abroad  in 
all  lands,  there  were  certain  departments  of  human  life  in 
which  Lord  Caradoc  was  as  little  qualified  to  conduct  him- 
self with  ordinary  common-sense  as  the  least  capable  man 
in  England.  On  George's  arrival  in  Merrilees  he  found, 
somewhat  to  his  surprise,  that  his  host  had  for  the  time 
being  lost  all  interest  in  written  and  printed  matter,  and 
was  intent  only  on  the  works  of  Nature  as  displayed  in 
certain  nooks  and  corners  of  the  island  upon  which  the 
house  stood.  He  was  a  much  more  human  old  gentleman 
when  pottering  around  his  gardens  and  his  glass-houses 
than  when  engaged  with  his  books,  and  proved  himself 
quite  a  delightful  companion  as  he  initiated  George  into 
the  mysteries  of  horticulture,  while  Cicely  stood  by  with  a 
basket  and  a  roll  of  bass  and  mildly  chaffed  her  learned 
father  as  she  would  never  have  ventured  to  do  had  he  been 
discoursing  on  a  point  of  constitutional  law  instead  of  on 
some  such  subject  as  the  hybridisation  of  daffodils.  George, 
of  course,  was  supremely  happy  in  this  hourly  triple  com- 
panionship, and  had  Mrs.  Herbert  been  at  hand  to  see  that 
Lord  Caradoc  suffered  no  ill  effects  from  his  unwonted 
excursions  into  the  full  air,  the  pleasant  garden  work 
might  have  gone  on  indefinitely  or  until  he  grew  tired  of 
it.  Lord  Caradoc,  however,  having  ceased  to  be  ill, 
bestowed  no  further  thought  on  his  late  illness,  with  the 


304  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

result  that  within  a  week  of  her  departure  he  caught 
another  chill  and  became  ill  again.  There  was  nothing 
alarming  in  his  illness,  but  Cicely,  who  had  not  learned  to 
do  without  her  older  friend  in  these  domestic  crises,  judged 
it  wise  to  write  to  Mrs.  Herbert  to  ask  her  to  return  as  soon 
as  possible.  Mrs.  Herbert,  who  was  feeling  the  cold  very 
much  on  an  exposed  part  of  the  coast  of  Sutherlandshire, 
was  not  sorry  to  respond  to  the  summons,  and  came  back 
a  week  earlier  than  she  had  intended,  bringing  Peggy  with 
her. 

Peggy,  although  unusually  quiet  and  shy  at  first,  soon 
expanded  under  the  influence  of  her  surroundings.  George 
and  she  had  not  met  since  Mrs.  Greenfield's  death,  and  she 
was  overjoyed  to  be  with  him  again.  Mrs.  Herbert's  kind- 
ness was  of  the  nature  of  a  broad  and  well-fed  stream,  and 
never  failed  its  recipient.  And  Cicely,  whose  girl  friend- 
ships had  been  few,  took  to  her  from  the  first  moment  when 
she  saw  her  pretty  but  pale  and  sad-eyed  little  face.  The 
two  girls  were  seldom  apart  after  the  first  day,  and  Peggy 
soon  lost  her  pallor  and  sadness  and  even  showed  at  times 
signs  of  her  old  light-hearted  gaiety.  George's  gratitude  to 
Mrs.  Herbert  for  rescuing  her  for  a  time  from  her  dismal 
life  and  for  bringing  her  and  Cicely  together  with  such 
happy  results,  burned  strong,  and  Mrs.  Herbert  herself  was 
not  too  busy  over  Lord  Caradoc's  ailments  to  congratulate 
herself  on  the  condition  she  had  imposed  on  Mr.  Richards. 

For  a  few  days  the  three  young  people  at  Merrilees  led  a 
life  which,  quiet  and  unexciting  as  it  was,  apparently 
satisfied  each  of  them  completely.  George  was  with  them 
the  greater  part  of  the  day  as  they  read  or  worked  or 
played  together  in  the  morning  room,  or  the  music  room, 
or  wandered  about  the  gardens  or  the  woods,  and  expected 
only  to  be  deprived  of  their  society  for  some  hours  of  the 
day  when  Lord  Caradoc  should  be  well  enough  to  require 


MRS.  HERBERT  VISITS  GLASGOW.       305 

his  assistance  in  the  library.  Their  happy  and  companion- 
able mode  of  life,  however,  was  broken  by  events  of 
greater  import  than  Lord  Caradoc's  removal  from  his 
bedroom  to  his  library,  and  it  is  time  that  we  took  up  the 
tale  of  them. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

IMPORTANT  NEWS. 

MR.  RICHARD  CALTHORP,  clad  in  garments  indicating  the 
/ery  latest  word  in  unobtrusive  smartness,  and  with  smooth 
black  hair  brushed  back  and  brushed  again  from  off  his 
high  forehead,  sat  at  work  in  his  private  room  at  the 
chambers  of  Messrs.  Calthorp,  Griffin  and  Wells,  solicitors 
of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  It  was  twelve  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  Mr.  Calthorp  looked  as  if  he  had  just  dropped 
in  for  half  an  hour  before  taking  a  pre-luncheon  stroll  in 
the  park  because  he  had  nothing  better  to  do  with  his 
time.  But  appearances  are  proverbially  deceptive,  and  he 
had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  sat  there  since  eight  o'clock  that 
morning,  and  proposed  to  sit  there,  with  a  short  interval  for 
lunch,  until  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  For  both  his 
partners  were  laid  up,  the  one  with  influenza,  and  the  other 
with  gout,  and  Calthorp,  when  it  came  to  an  emergency, 
was  as  much  to  be  depended  on  as  any  worker  of  them  all 
within  the  sound  of  the  Law  Courts  clock.  The  table  in 
front  of  him  was  piled  with  orderly  masses  of  documents, 
tlirough  which  he  was  ploughing  his  way  with  methodical 
energy  and  self-possessed  assurance. 

There  entered  a  clerk  who  put  down  a  piece  of  paper  in 
front  of  him,  upon  which  was  written,  **T.  Bridden, 
Floutsham." 

"And  who  is  Mr.  T.  Bridden  of  Floutsham,  and  what 
does  he  want  ?  "  inquired  Calthorp. 

"  He  looks  like  some  sort  of  a  fisherman,"  replied  the 


IMPORTANT  NEWS.  307 

clerk.  "  Floutsham  is  a  fishing  village  in  Cumberland,  and 
he  has  come  here  because  he  has  seen  the  advertisements 
relating  to  Merrilees." 

"  I  am  rather  busy,  but  I  think  you  might  show  him  in," 
said  Calthorp. 

T.  Bridden,  duly  shown  in  and  appointed  to  a  seat,  proved 
to  be  a  heavy  looking  middle-aged  man  with  a  shaggy  mop 
of  light  hair  and  a  pair  of  light  eyes  to  match.  The 
natural  expression  of  these  would  appear  to  have  been  one 
of  piscine  vacancy,  but  that  expression  was  tempered  for 
the  occasion  by  one  of  slight  alarm  mixed  with  suspicion. 

All  this  Calthorp  took  in  at  a  glance. 

"  I  will  attend  to  you  in  half  a  minute,"  he  said,  and 
returned  to  his  writing.  What  he  wrote  under  cover  of  a 
paper-holder  and  a  rampart  of  documents  may  be  supposed 
to  have  been  written  to  gratify  his  private  sense  of  humour, 
for  it  had  no  particular  bearing  on  the  business  with  which 
he  had  been  engaged.  The  words,  written  in  the  hand  of 
copy-books,  were,  "  The  trick  is  an  old  one,  but  in  this  case 
it  will  be  effective."  When  he  had  written  this  mysterious 
sentence  he  tore  up  the  paper  into  small  fragments  and 
threw  them  into  the  basket  by  his  side,  and  then  leant 
back  in  his  chair,  adjusted  his  eyeglass,  and  said  with  a 
searching  look  at  his  visitor,  "  Now,  Mr.  T.  Bridden,  what 
can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

T.  Bridden,  obviously  impressed  by  his  surroundings 
and  the  manner  of  his  reception,  turned  his  cap  in  his 
hands,  and  looking  on  the  floor,  replied,  "  I  come  for 
my  money." 

"  Quite  so,"  replied  Calthorp,  unmoved  by  this  announce- 
ment, "  How  much  money  ?  " 

"  Well,  last  year  it  was  twenty-five  pound,  and  five  year 
ago  it  was  twenty-five  pound.  All  the  other  years  it's  been 
twenty  pound." 

x  a 


308  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"Twenty  pounds,  then,"  said  Calthorp,  scribbling  on  a 
piece  of  paper,  "  And  it  was  given  to  you  by  <  ** 

"Yes,"  said  the  man. 

"  By  Mr.  Martin,"  hazarded  Calthorp. 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  why  don't  you  go  to  Mr.  Martin  for  it  now  ?  " 

**  Because  he's  gone,  and  I  don't  know  where  to  find  him/' 

"  Don't  you  think  you  could  find  him  if  you  tried  ?  " 

"  No.    He's  gone.    Nobody  knows  where  he  is." 

"Because  I'm  not  sure  that  I  can  let  you  have  the 
money.  He  would  be  sure  to,  if  you  went  to  him.  You 
wouldn't  have  to  tell  anyone  where  he  was.  You  could 
keep  that  dark  when  once  you  had  got  your  money." 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  don't  know  where  he  is." 

"Well,  Braithwaite,  then.  Couldn't  you  get  it  from 
Braithwaite  ?  " 

"  What,  Braithwaite  up  at  the  '  Three  Feathers '  ?  He's 
been  there  twenty  year,  and  he  don't  know  nothing 
about  it." 

"  No,  not  that  Braithwaite.    The  one  at  Merrilees." 

"  I  don't  know  no  Braithwaite  at  Merrilees.  If  he'll  give 
it  me  I'll  go  to  him." 

"  Where  should  you  go  to  ?  '* 

"  Why,  to  Merrilees,  of  course." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  you  would  find  him  there.  Perhaps 
I  might  be  able  to  give  you  the  money  after  all.  How 
many  years  have  you  had  it  ?  " 

"  Twenty-four  years.    This  is  the  twenty- fifth." 

"  I  see.    And  what  have  you  received  it  for  ?  " 

"  For  holding  my  tongue." 

"What  about?  I  must  make  certain  that  you  are  the 
right  man." 

"  Well,  if  I  tell  you  what  about,  I  shan't  be  holding  my 
tongue,  shall  I  ?  And  then  you'd  say  that  I  hadn't  held  my 


IMPORTANT  NEWS.  309 

tongue  and  I  shouldn't  get  my  twenty  pound."  There  was 
a  look  of  triumphant  cunning  on  T.  Bridden's  face. 

"I  see  you're  a  sharp  fellow,"  said  Calthorp.  "Perhaps 
you  are  sharp  enough  to  understand  this — that  if  you  don't 
tell  me  what  you  were  to  hold  your  tongue  about,  you  won't 
get  a  penny. 

T.  Bridden  was  obviously  taken  aback. 

"  Why  do  you  come  to  us  for  the  money  at  all  ?  "  asked 
Calthorp. 

T.  Bridden  produced  a  dirty-folded  handbill  and  displayed 
it  triumphantly. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Calthorp.  "That  is  an  offer  of  a 
large  reward  for  the  tracing  of  Martin  and  Braithwaite.  I 
thought  you  might  have  come  to  claim  that  reward,  but 
you  say  you  have  never  heard  of  Braithwaite." 

"  I  can't  read,"  admitted  T.  Bridden,  sulkily.  "  But  they 
told  me  your  name  was  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"So  it  is.  And  you  were  quite  right  to  come  to  us. 
Now  for  your  story.  What  was  the  money  given  to 
you  for  ?  " 

The  look  of  cunning  perched  again  on  T.  Bridden's 
unintelligent  face.  "  You  don't  get  me  that  way,  mister," 
he  said,  "  I  can't  read,  but  I'm  sharp." 

"  Well  now,  Mr.  Bridden,  the  situation  is  this.  You 
have  been  paid  twenty  pounds  a  year  for  the  last  twenty- 
four  years,  sometimes  twenty-five  pounds,  to  keep  a  certain 
secret,  which  had  to  do  with — well,  I  needn't  say  what  it 
had  to  do  with.  You  are  not  going  to  be  paid  another 
penny  for  keeping  it,  either  by  Sir  Roderick  Bertram,  who 
is  dead,  or  by  Martin,  who  has  disappeared.  You  quite 
understand  that,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Then  what  do  you  want  to  put  your  name  at  the 
bottom  of  this  for?  "  inquired  T.  Bridden  truculently. 

"  That,  my  friend,  has  nothing  whatever  to   do  with 


3io  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES* 

your  secret.  You  understand,  then,  that  there  is  nobody- 
nobody  at  all,  who  is  going  to  pay  you  anything  more  for 
holding  your  tongue.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do. 
I'll  pay  you  twenty  pounds — no,  I'll  pay  you  five-and- 
twenty — if  you  tell  me  what  you  were  to  hold  your  tongue 
about." 

T.  Bridden  seemed  to  be  revolving  this  proposition  in 
his  slow  mind. 

"Come  now,"  pursued  Calthorp,  "  it  has  been  a  good 
secret  to  you.  You  have  made  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  by  keeping  it  already.  But  you  won't  make  any 
mute  in  that  way.  Let  me  have  it,  and  you  will  go  out 
of  this  room  with  five-and-twenty  pounds  in  your  pocket." 

"  Sovereigns  ?  "  inquired  T.  Bridden.  "  He  always  paid 
me  in  golden  sovereigns." 

"Golden  sovereigns,  certainly.  Wait  a  minute."  Cal- 
thorp rang  the  bell  beside  him.  "Give  that  to  the 
cashier,"  he  said,  handing  a  scrap  of  paper  to  the  clerk 
who  answered  his  summons.  Then  he  returned  for  a 
minute  or  two  to  his  papers  until  another  clerk  came  in 
and  put  twenty-five  pounds  on  the  table  beside  him. 
"  Now  then,"  he  said,  "  that  is  for  you  when  you  have 
told  me  your  story." 

"Well,  I'll  do  it,"  said  T.  Bridden,  on  whose  face  a 
gleam  of  satisfaction  had  shone  at  the  sight  of  the  money. 
"  You  won't  go  back  on  me,  mister?  " 

"  Not  if  you  tell  me  everything." 

"Oh,  I'll  tell  you  everything.  It  ain't  much.  Well,  you 
must  know  that  five-and-twenty  years  ago  on  this  very  day 
as  it  might  be " 

"  Was  it  on  this  very  day  ?  " 

"  No.  It  was  on  the  last  day  in  March.  I  know  because 
I  always  went  to  Merrilees  to  get  the  money  on  the  last 
day  in  March.  That's  so." 


IMPORTANT   NEWS.  311 

"  Very  well.  On  the  last  day  in  Match  twenty-five  years 
ago — Go  on." 

"  I  was  on  the  shore  under  the  lea  of  a  boat.  Must  I  tell 
you  what  I  was  there  for,  mister?"  There  was  some 
anxiety  in  T.  Bridden's  voice. 

"  Not  unless  I  ask  you.  This  was  at  Floutsham,  I 
suppose." 

"  Within  a  mile.  It  was  after  twelve  o'clock  at  night, 
and  it  was  dark  and  stormy.  I  wasn't  doing  any  harm 
there." 

*'  Never  mind  what  you  were  doing." 

T.  Bridden  seemed  relieved,  and  proceeded  with  more 
assurance.  Calthorp  let  him  tell  his  tale  without  interrup- 
tion, and  his  tale,  shorn  of  some  digressions,  and  translated 
into  intelligible  language,  was  as  follows  : — 

"  There  was  half  a  gale  blowing,  and  it  was  very  dark. 
One  minute  I  was  looking  out  to  sea  or  as  far  as  I  could  carry, 
and  there  was  nothing  there.  Then  I  looked  landwards, 
and  the  next  minute  I  looked  out  to  sea  again,  and  there 
was  a  boat  grounded  on  the  beach,  not  much  further  off 
than  I  am  from  you.  I  hadn't  heard  a  sound.  I  was  just 
about  to  hail  her,  because — well,  because  of  what  I  might 
have  been  expecting,  you  understand,  or  what  I  might  not 
have  been  expecting.  But  I  saw  directly  that  she  wasn't 
any  boat  I  might  have  had  anything  to  do  with.  There 
was  a  lot  of  men  in  her,  and  a  dark  something  that  I 
couldn't  rightly  make  out  at  first,  amidships.  I  squatted 
down  under  the  lea  of  the  ketch  where  I  had  been  standing 
and  looked  to  see  what  would  follow.  Then  a  tall  man  in 
a  long  cloak  came  and  stood  just  against  me,  so  near  that 
I  could  have  touched  him  if  I'd  put  out  my  hand.  I  daren't 
move,  so  I  squatted  there  as  still  as  a  mouse,  and  him  and 
me  watched  everything  that  went  on,  together,  as  you 
might  say. 


3ia  THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

"  Well,  I  saw  what  they  took  out  of  the  boat  when  they 
rested  it  for  a  minute  on  the  beach.  It  was  a  coffin.  I 
didn't  rightly  know  what  to  make  of  it,  and  I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  mister,  that  I'd  as  soon  have  been  at  home  in 
bed  as  where  I  was.  Then  they  took  a  sort  of  little  cart 
out  of  the  boat  and  hoisted  the  coffin  on  to  that,  and,  just  as 
I'd  seen  that,  the  man  who'd  stood  quite  still  by  me  while 
all  this  was  going  on  took  a  step  backwards  right  on  to 
me. 

"  I  hadn't  time  to  call  out  or  do  nothing.  He  was  on  me 
like  a  dog  on  a  rat,  and  caught  me  by  the  throat,  and  held 
me  till  I  began  to  choke.  His  fingers  were  like  iron,  and 
his  arms,  too,  and  I  couldn't  stir.  I  could  just  see  his  face, 
and  it  fair  frightened  me,  it  was  so  fierce.  But  I  didn't 
want  that  to  frighten  me,  neither.  His  hands  were  choking 
the  life  out  of  me,  and  I  thought  I  was  done  for.  But  just 
as  I  thought  I  was  gone,  another  man  came  up  and  said 
something  to  him.  I  couldn't  hear  what  it  was,  for  my 
ears  was  singing,  and  he  didn't  so  much  as  lay  a  finger  on 
him  to  stop  him  choking  me.  But  he  stopped  all  the  same, 
and  took  his  hand  off  my  throat,  and  as  I  lay  there  by  the 
boat  coming  to  myself  again  the  two  men  talked  to  one 
another  quietly  within  a  stride  of  me. 

"  I'm  not  likely  to  forget  it.  The  wind  was  bitter  cold 
and  wet  with  the  spray,  and  it  took  hold  of  the  cloak  of  the 
tall  man  and  blew  it  so  that  it  touched  my  face.  But  he 
stood  there  as  firm  as  a  rock.  And  I  could  make  out  the 
coffin  and  the  men  standing  by  it  waiting  through  the 
blackness.  I  couldn't  hear  what  the  two  was  saying 
because  of  the  wind  howling,  and  besides,  the  breath  had 
been  almost  choked  out  of  me,  and  I  was  coughing  and 
coming  to.  But  I  thought  I  was  done  for.  I  thought 
there'd  been  one  murder,  and  there'd  be  another,  or  at  least 
they'd  rope  me  up  and  take  me  out  to  sea. 


IMPORTANT  NEWS.  313 

"But  it  wasn't  long  before  the  man  what  had  nearly 
choked  me  moved  away,  and  the  other  began  to  talk  to  me. 
First  he  told  me  that  I  wasn't  hurt,  and  then  he  said  he'd 
been  told  to  give  me  ten  pounds  for  what  had  been  done  to 
me,  and  I  wasn't  to  say  or  think  any  more  about  it.  And 
he  gave  me  the  money  there  and  then.  Then  he  said,  '  Are 
you  satisfied  with  that  ? '  and  I  said  'yes.'  'Well,'  he  said, 
'  and  on  this  day  twelvemonth  you'll  get  another  ten  pound 
if  you  do  as  I  tell  you,  but  you'll  have  to  listen  carefully,' 
he  said,  '  and  take  in  what  I  say.'  So  I  said  I  was  ready, 
for  I'd  got  over  the  handling  a  bit  then,  and  I'd  got  the 
money  and  wanted  more. 

"  He  said,  '  You  have  heard  of  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  ? ' 
I  said  *  yes.'  He  said,  '  That's  him  standing  there.  And  in 
that  coffin  is  the  body  of  his  lady  who's  died  in  foreign  parts. 
And  Sir  Roderick  is  taking  her  body  home,'  he  said,  '  but 
he  don't  want  anyone  to  know  it.  That's  why  he's  landed 
here  in  the  dead  of  the  night.  Now  there's  nothing  wrong  in 
that,  is  there  ?  '  he  said.  '  No,'  I  said.  '  But  choking  the 
life  out  of  a  man  who's  done  him  no  harm's  another  thing.' 
'  You've  been  paid  for  that,'  he  said,  '  and  you  said  you 
were  satisfied.  The  gentleman  was  angry  at  finding  there 
was  somebody  looking  on  when  he  thought  he  was  alone. 
He  didn't  mean  to  do  you  any  harm.'  '  Well,'  I  said, '  we'll 
say  no  more  about  that.'  '  That's  right,'  he  said,  '  and  I 
see  you're  a  sensible  man.  Now  you  won't  get  anything  by 
telling  what  you've  seen,  and  if  you  was  to  tell  everybody 
nothing  would  come  of  it,  for  there's  nothing  been  done 
that's  against  the  law,'  he  said,  '  and  you'd  only  make  Sir 
Roderick  angry,  and  he  might  want  to  know  what  you're 
doing  here  at  this  time  of  night,  when  everybody's  asleep. 
He's  a  magistrate.'  I  told  him  I  wasn't  doing  any  harm 
and  he  said,  '  I  shan't  want  to  know  what  you  were  doing 
as  long  as  you  keep  what  you've  seen  to  yourself.  And  on 


314  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

this  day  next  year  if  nothing  has  got  out  about  this  work 
to-night  you  can  come  to  Merrilees,'  he  said,  '  and  ask  for 
Mr.  Martin,  and  I'll  give  you  another  ten  pound,  and  ten 
pound  every  year  when  you  come  for  it,  if  you  say  nothing 
to  nobody.'  '  But  mind,'  he  said,  '  if  you  say  a  word  of 
what  you've  seen  to  anybody,  even  to  your  wife,'  but  I 
hadn't  got  a  wife,  mister,  and  never  have  had,  '  it'll  be  bound 
to  get  out,'  he  said,  '  and  you'll  lose  ten  pounds  a  year  for 
life.' 

"  So  I  promised  I  never  would  say  nothing  to  nobody, 
and  he  went  away,  and  I  stopped  where  I  was  and  saw 
them  wheel  the  coffin  up  the  beach,  all  marching  together, 
quick-like,  and  when  I  couldn't  see  them  no  more  because 
of  the  blackness  I  heard  them  tramp,  tramp  along  the  road 
which  leads  inland,  and  listened  till  I  couldn't  hear 
nothing  but  the  wind." 

"  And  the  boat  ?  "  asked  Calthorp. 

"  The  boat  had  already  rowed  off,  and  I  was  left  alone 
on  the  beach." 

"  Then  you  went  to  Merrilees  a  year  after  ?  ** 

"Yes,  and  Mr.  Martin,  he  said  Sir  Roderick  had  told 
him  to  give  me  twenty  pounds  instead  of  ten.  He  said  he 
hadn't  thought  the  secret  could  have  been  kept  so  well, 
but  as  nobody  knew  it  and  a  year  had  gone  by  he'd  make 
it  worth  my  while  to  keep  it  always." 

*'  And  you  never  did  tell  a  soul  ?  " 

"  No,  not  me.  And  every  year  I  went  and  drawed  my 
twenty  pound  same  as  if  it  was  the  bank." 

"  Why  did  you  get  twenty- five  pounds  on  two  occasions  ?  ** 

"  Well,  I  asked  for  it.  I  asked  for  fifty.  I  said  it  was 
worth  it.  But  Mr.  Martin,  he  said  no.  He  said  if  I 
had  all  that  money  it  would  set  people  wondering  where 
I  got  it  from.  And  he  wouldn't  give  me  no  more  than 
twenty-fiv«.  But  he  give  me  that  twice.  And  I  wasn't 


IMPORTANT   NEWS.  315 

going  to  lose  my  twenty  pound  regular  for  sticking  out 
for  more." 

"Well,  you  seem  to  have  kept  the  secret  well.  You 
don't  know  where  Sir  Roderick's  lady  was  buried,  1 
suppose  ?  " 

"  No.  I  don't  know  nothing  more  but  what  I've  told 
you." 

"  And  you  never  saw  Sir  Roderick  when  you  went  over 
to  Merrilees?" 

*  No.  I  only  saw  Mr.  Martin.  He  met  me  at  the  Lodge 
and  paid  me  the  money,  and  I  went  away  again." 

"  Very  well,  then.  There's  nothing  more  I  want  to  ask 
you.  Here's  your  twenty- five  pounds." 

"  And  that's  all  I  shall  get,  then,  mister  ?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't  quite  all.  You'll  hold  your  tongue  about 
this  a  bit  longer,  and  when  I  don't  care  whether  you  hold 
your  tongue  any  more  or  not  I'll  send  you  another  five 
pounds." 

"  Five  pounds  isn't  much,  mister." 

"  You  seem  to  be  of  an  avaricious  nature,  Mr.  Bridden. 
No,  it  isn't  much,  but  it's  better  than  nothing,  and  that's 
what  you'll  get  if  you  let  it  out." 

"Well,  I've  held  my  tongue  for  five  and  twenty  years. 
I  dare  say  I  can  hold  it  a  bit  longer.  When  shall  I  get  tUe 
five  pounds  ? " 

"  When  I  send  it  to  you.  Give  me  your  address  and  put 
your  mark  to  this  paper.  It  is  a  receipt  for  the  money  I've 
given  you." 

T.  Bridden  having  complied  with  these  requests  took 
his  departure,  leaving  Calthorp  to  digest  the  information 
he  had  received.  His  cogitations  resulted  in  a  telegram 
being  despatched  to  Guy  in  Paris,  "  Important  news. 
Please  come  over  at  once  ; "  and  when  this  had  been  sent 
off  Calthorp  returned  refreshed  to  his  labours. 


316  THE   HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

Guy  had  settled  down  to  a  steady  spell  of  work,  and 
although  his  previous  unsettled  mode  of  life  often  influ- 
enced him  with  a  desire  for  change  and  idleness,  and  at 
times  the  regularity  and  drudgery  of  his  work  irked  him 
exceedingly,  he  had  so  far  resisted  all  desires  to  relinquish 
it  even  for  a  day,  and  had  toiled  on  steadily  during  the 
two  months  he  had  spent  in  Paris.  Calthorp's  message 
came  as  a  relief  to  his  drudgery.  He  crossed  the  Channel 
on  the  same  evening,  and  put  in  an  early  appearance  at 
Calthorp's  office  the  next  morning. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  important  news  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You 
might  have  given  me  a  hint." 

*'I  shouldn't  have  satisfied  you  if  I  had,"  replied 
Calthorp,  on  whose  usually  impassive  face  satisfaction 
reigned  triumphant.  "  I  could  only  have  told  you  yesterday 
that  we  were  on  the  track  of  Lady  Bertram's  burying  place." 
"Oh,  hang  Lady  Bertram's  burying- place !  I  want  to 
get  hold  of  Martin." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  will  now.  I'm  on  the  track  of  him ; 
but  that  has  happened  since  I  sent  you  my  wire." 

"  Out  with  it !  "  exclaimed  Guy,  excitedly.  "  Good 
heavens !  I'd  given  up  all  hope  of  this." 

"Well,    I've    received    information    that     Braithwaite 
landed  in  Liverpool  from  America  on  Tuesday.    This  is 
Thursday,  and  he  is  in  an  hotel  there  doing  nothing.    I've 
got  two  men  watching  him." 
"  Why  on  earth  don't  you  get  him  arrested  ?  " 
"Because  it   is   pretty   obvious   that   he  is  waiting  in 
Liverpool  till  he  gets  some  sort  of  summons  from  Martin. 
What  does  a  man  like  that  want  to  kick  his  heels  in  an 
hotel  for?      We  keep  an  eye  on  him  till  he  sets  out  to 
meet  Martin.     Then  we  follow  him  and  nab  them  both." 
"  You  think  that  they  are  going  to  take  steps  to  dispose 
of  their  booty  at  last?" 


IMPORTANT  NEWS.  317 

"  Probably.  Otherwise  why  should  Braithwaite,  who 
succeeded  in  getting  safely  away  to  America,  come  back 
and  put  his  head  in  a  noose  ?  " 

"  I  hope  to  goodness  he  won't  give  us  the  slip  again." 
"  Not  much  chance  of  that.  There  are  two  smart  men 
keeping  an  eye  on  him  day  and  night,  and  he  hasn't  an  idea 
of  it.  And  there's  another  man  watching  the  arriving 
boats,  in  case  Martin  should  be  coming  from  America  too. 
But  I  think  he's  hiding  in  England.  He's  been  seen  in 
London,  you  know." 

"  What  about  the  other  business  ?  Does  it  lead  to  any- 
thing ?  " 

"  You  shall  hear."  And  Calthorp  told  him  of  the  infor- 
mation he  had  received  the  day  before. 

"  It's  a  curious  story,"  said  Guy,  when  he  had  finished. 
«'  What  do  you  make  of  it  ?  " 

M  Lady  Bertram  is  buried  somewhere  on  the  island,  and 
Sir  Roderick  is  buried  with  her." 

"  But  we  have  searched  everywhere  and  found  no  possible 
burying  place." 

"Then  we  must  search  again." 

"Why  on  the  island?  That  doesn't  follow  from  this 
man's  story." 

"  I  think  it  does.  Sir  Roderick  wanted  to  have  his  wife's 
body  always  near  him,  and  as  you  know,  he  never  left  the 
island.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think.  There  is  some 
hiding  place  about  the  house.  It  is  big  enough  and  part 
of  it  quite  old  enough  to  make  that  possible.  And  I  also 
think,  though  this  is  only  conjecture,  that  when  we  have 
found  Lady  Bertram's  body  and  Sir  Roderick's  body,  which 
will  be  with  it,  we  shall  find  the  jewels  in  the  same  hiding- 
place.  Even  if  Martin  took  some  of  the  jewels  away  with 
him,  I  don't  believe  he  could  have  taken  them  all,  and  if 
there  is  a  secret  place,  as  there  must  be,  it  would  be 


3i8  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

natural  that  he  should  put  them  there  for  safety.  He  and 
Braithwaite  are  evidently  on  the  point  of  taking  advantage 
of  this  robbery,  and  I  believe  that  when  they  come  together 
they  will  make  for  Merrilees.  We  must  keep  a  close 
watch  there.  In  fact,  I  have  given  instructions  that  they 
are  not  to  be  arrested  at  once,  but  followed  wherever 
they  go." 

"  Isn't  that  rather  dangerous  ?  ** 

"Not  very,  with  the  close  watch  that  will  be  kept  on 
them.  We  want  the  jewels.  Supposing  that  Martin  were 
to  be  arrested  and  then  refuse  to  say  where  they  were.  It 
is  not  likely,  but  it  is  possible.  He  is  going  to  guide  us  to 
the  place  where  they  are  hidden.** 

"  I  don't  much  like  the  plan.  A  bird  in  the  hand,  you 
know.  But  perhaps  you  are  right.  And  who  is  going  to 
receive  these  gentlemen  when  they  go  to  Merrilees,  if  they 
do  go?" 

"  I  think  you  must.  Someone  must  be  there.  I  can't 
go  myself,  at  least  not  just  to  sit  down  and  wait.  I'm 
single-handed  here.  But  I'll  come  when  I  hear  they've 
started.  But  I  want  you  to  go  up  there  to-day  and  stay 
there." 

"You  seem  to  forget  that  I've  let  the  house  to  Lord 
Caradoc." 

"No  I  don't.  There  was  a  clause  in  the  lease.  And 
you  can  go  up  and  pay  them  a  visit." 

Guy  hesitated.  "  I  have  got  a  standing  invitation,"  he 
said,  "but  I  don't  quite  like  to  take  advantage  of  it  to  play 
the  detective  in  what  is  now  practically  his  house  and  not 
mine." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  as  punctilious  as  you  about  that 
sort  of  thing,  but  this  isn't  a  time  to  stand  on  ceremony. 
I  didn't  put  that  clause  in  the  lease  for  fun,  and  it  was 
explained  t  Lord  Caradoc.  Besides,  if  you  go  up  you 


IMPORTANT   NEWS.  319 

may  be  able  to  save  them  from  some  annoyance.  You 
won't  have  anything  to  do—  simply  to  stay  there  and  keep 
your  eyes  open,  and  wire  to  me  if  anything  happens.  I 
shall  have  men  round  the  place,  but  I  want  somebody  in 
the  house  itself." 

"  I  could  write  and  propose  myself  for  a  visit.** 
"  You  must  send  a  wire  to  say  you're  coming,  and  go  up 
to-day.     If  you  don't  I  must  send  a  man.     I'm  conducting 
the  case  and  I'm  not  going  to  throw  away  chances." 

In  the  end  Guy  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded.  He 
sent  a  long  telegram  announcing  his  arrival,  and  left 
London  by  the  two  o'clock  train.  Just  before  he  left  his 
rooms  he  received  a  note  from  Bobby  Conder  : 


GUT, 

"  I'm  back  from  my  travels.  I  want  to  see  you  par- 
ticularly as  I  have  brought  a  mysterious  communication  for 
you  all  the  way  from  the  back  blocks  of  Australia.  Dine 
with  me  to-night  at  the  Bachelors'  at  eight  o'clock,  and 

I'll  hand  it  over. 

"Yours  ever, 

"  R.  CONDER.  ' 
To  which  Guy  replied  : 

"  Welcome  home.  Just  off  to  Merrilees.  Write  to  me 
there.** 

Bobby  Conder  had  not  given  much  thought  to  the  com- 
munication which  had  been  packed  away  amongst  the 
papers  in  his  despatch  box  for  the  last  few  months.  Now 
that  he  had  reached  home,  however,  his  curiosity  began  to 
burn  a  little.  He  took  out  the  packet  and  read  the 
instructions  written  by  the  old  squatter.  He  was  not 
allowed  to  send  the  paper  by  post.  He  must  put  it  into 
the  hands  of  the  owner  of  Merrilees.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  he  might  assist  at  an  exciting  discovery  if  he  did  so 


320  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

at  Merrilees  itself.  The  result  of  his  further  musings  was 
that  another  message  was  received  at  Merrilees  during  the 
course  of  that  afternoon  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Robert 
Conder  proposed  to  journey  thither  on  the  following  day 
to  pay  his  respects  to  his  uncle  and  cousin  after  his  recent 
return  from  his  travel*. 


CHAPTER  XX VL 

MARTIN  AT  LAST. 

ON  the  surprise  and  delight  of  Guy  when  he  arrived  at 
Merrilees  and  found  Peggy  there  we  cannot  linger.  Events 
now  began  to  move  fast,  and  we  must  follow  their  develop- 
ment closely.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  when  the  announcement 
of  his  visit  had  reached  Merrilees,  Peggy  had  written  to 
her  father,  but  had  received  no  reply  to  her  letter,  and 
remained  where  she  was  while  the  house  of  Merrilees 
witnessed  the  final  scenes  of  the  strange  drama  which  had 
been  played  within  its  walls. 

Lord  Caradoc,  who  by  this  time  was  downstairs  again, 
had  apparently  forgotten  all  about  the  mystery  connected 
with  the.  house  he  inhabited.  He  seemed  annoyed  at  the 
idea  of  its  becoming  the  centre  of  notoriety  once  more,  and 
could  not  see,  if  Martin  wanted  to  put  a  large  collection  of 
jewels  into  a  place  of  safety,  why  he  should  not  have  taken 
the  obvious  course  of  sending  them  to  the  bank.  He 
expressed  himself,  however,  with  gratitude  towards  Guy 
for  coming  up  to  the  house  to  receive  the  expected  visitors. 
He  seemed  to  be  under  the  impression  that  he  might,  other- 
wise, have  had  to  interview  them  himself,  which  he  would 
not  have  liked  at  all.  He  said  that  he  hoped  Guy  would 
do  exactly  what  he  liked  in  the  house,  but  he  should  beg 
to  be  allowed  to  keep  the  inner  library  for  his  own  exclusive 
use.  He  knew  the  contents  of  every  square  inch  of  that 
room,  and  he  could  assure  him  that  there  were  no  jewels 
there  whatever. 

H.M.  * 


3aa  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

On  the  night  of  Guy's  arrival  he  and  Mrs.  Herbert  and 
George  sat  up  late  discussing  the  bearing  of  Calthorp's 
news.  Mrs.  Herbert  seemed  exceedingly  disturbed  at  the 
idea  of  anything  happening  in  the  house.  She  impressed 
upon  both  young  men  the  necessity  of  keeping  everything 
from  the  two  girls,  and  she  seemed  more  anxious  that 
Peggy  should  know  nothing  of  what  possibly  might 
happen  even  than  Cicely.  She  could  not  deny  that 
Calthorp's  inferences  seemed  to  be  justified  and  that  they 
were  likely  to  undergo  experiences  in  that  quiet  house 
within  the  next  few  days  which  would  certainly  prove  dis- 
turbing, and  might  even  be  terrifying.  George  and  Guy 
decided  that  they  would  not  take  any  of  the  men  about  the 
house  into  their  confidence.  If  Martin  and  Braithwaite 
came  to  the  house  they  would  come  alone,  and  they  would 
come  with  Calthorp's  detectives  hard  on  their  heels. 
There  would  be  enough  of  them  to  capture  the  two  men 
without  running  the  risk  of  giving  them  warning  by  taking 
outsiders  into  confidence.  Before  they  went  to  bed,  very 
late,  they  went  over  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  but  saw 
nothing  and  heard  nothing  in  any  way  unusual. 

Nothing  happened  on  the  following  morning.  George 
and  Guy  slipped  out  after  breakfast  to  find  the  men  who 
were  keeping  watch  round  the  walls  of  the  park.  They 
found  them  at  different  points  in  the  guise  of  artists 
wandering  round  with  sketching  apparatus  ostentatiously 
displayed  to  find  a  good  position  for  a  picture.  All  three, 
although  their  appearance  was  not  strikingly  artistic, 
seemed  well  up  to  the  work  they  had  in  hand,  and  gave 
assurances,  each  of  them,  that  it  would  be  very  difficult 
for  any  one  to  get  past  them.  The  two  young  men  returned 
to  the  house. 

In  the  afternoon  Calthorp  began  to  work  the  telegraph 
wires.  He  had  taken  the  precaution  before  Guy  left  town 


MARTIN  AT  LAST.  323 

of  supplying  him  with  a  cipher,  and  the  post-mistress  of 
Morthwaite  was  exercised  during  the  latter  part  of  the  day 
in  taking  down  a  series  of  perfectly  unintelligible  messages. 
When  these  were  deciphered  they  ran  as  follows : 

12.45.  Braithwaite  has  received  a  telegram.  Is  preparing 
to  leave  Liverpool.  Am  coming  up  by  2.0  train.  Please 
send  conveyance  to  meet  me  at  Keswick.  Calthorp. 

2.45.  Braithwaite  left  Liverpool  by  1.55  train  and 
booked  to  Keswick.  Both  men  are  travelling  with  him. 
Our  Mr.  Calthorp  on  his  way  to  Merrilees.  Calthorp, 
Griffin,  Wells. 

4.7.  Wire  received  from  Preston.  Braithwaite  left  for 
Keswick  3.15.  Both  men  following  in  same  train.  No 
signs  of  Martin.  Calthorp,  Griffin,  Wells. 

5.58.  Braithwaite  reached  Penrith  and  changed  for 
Keswick.  Still  no  signs  of  Martin.  Tell  men  at  Merrilees 
to  keep  a  sharp  look  out.  Calthorp,  Griffin,  Wells. 

George  and  Guy  went  out  again,  and  finding  one  of  the 
pretended  artists  still  restlessly  wandering  about  in  search 
of  a  view  point,  told  him  the  news,  which  he  promised  to 
hand  on  to  the  others. 

At  about  seven  o'clock  a  telegram  came,  still  in  the 
same  cipher,  from  Keswick,  from  one  of  the  men  who  had 
shadowed  Braithwaite  from  Liverpool : 

Regret  to  inform  you  that  when  train  arrived  Keswick 
Braithwaite  had  disappeared.  Was  in  next  carriage  at 
Threlkeld.  Must  have  jumped  out  while  train  in  motion. 
Are  driving  to  Morthwaite.  Tell  men  to  keep  sharp  look 
out.  Brown. 

George  and  Guy  looked  at  one  another.  "  What  fools 
those  fellows  are,"  said  Guy  angrily.  "  Why  weren't  they 
in  the  same  carriage  ?  " 

"  I  expect  they  were  afraid  of  being  sized  up,"  said 
George.  "  Of  course  the  fellow  would  be  suspicious  of 

T  a 


304  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

everybody.  There  are  several  changes  between  Liverpool 
and  Keswick  at  which  they  must  have  shown  themselves, 
and  one  of  them  continually  going  to  the  telegraph  office 
might  make  him  think  they  were  on  his  track,  however 
careful  they  were.  However,  unless  he  had  a  conveyance 
of  some  sort  waiting  for  him  at  the  place  where  he  jumped 
off  they  will  be  here  before  him.  And  it  isn't  likely  that  he 
would  have.  He  is  much  more  likely  to  have  broken  his  leg." 

They  went  out  once  more  to  inform  the  detectives  of 
what  had  happened.  The  other  two  men  arrived  at 
about  eight  o'clock,  much  chagrined  at  the  escape  of 
their  quarry. 

"  It  was  very  difficult  to  keep  out  of  the  way,  sir,"  said 
one  of  them.  "  He  must  have  suspected  us.  We  were  in 
different  carriages,  one  on  each  side  of  his,  and  we  kept  a 
look-out  between  the  stations.  But  there  is  a  tunnel.  He 
must  have  got  off  d'reckly  we  got  out  of  it.  That  was  the 
only  place  we  could  have  missed  seeing  him." 

"  You  saw  no  one  on  your  journey  who  could  possibly 
answer  to  the  description  of  Martin  ? "  asked  Guy. 

"  No,  sir ;  no  one." 

"  They  will  meet  somewhere  between  Keswick  and  here, 
probably,"  said  George.  "  What  are  you  two  men  going 
to  do?" 

"We  thought  we'd  better  join  the  others  outside,  sir." 

"  They  are  outside  the  park,"  said  Guy,  "  and  the  wall  is 
at  least  five  miles  round.  You  had  better  stop  on  the 
island,  I  think.  Don't  you,  George  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  said  George.  "  They  might  very  well 
get  past  twenty  men  outside  the  walls.  But  they  will  find 
it  difficult  to  land  on  the  island  unnoticed." 

"  You  two  had  better  get  something  to  eat  and  then  go 
out  and  watch,"  said  Guy.  "  They  are  not  likely  to  come 
till  late  at  night,  and  then  I  don't  see  how  they  are  to  get 


MARTIN   AT   LAST.  325 

across.  I  have  told  a  man  to  watch  the  boats  all  night, 
though  he  doesn't  know  why.  But  we'd  better  not  run 
any  risks.  Go  out  as  soon  as  you  have  finished  your  meal. 
Mr.  Calthorp  will  be  here  about  ten  o'clock  with  another 
gentleman.  There  will  be  plenty  of  us  to  give  you  a  hand 
when  they  come,  and  we  shall  be  on  the  watch  and  shall 
hear  you  when  you  call." 

Dinner  and  the  hour  that  followed  it  wore  away  some- 
how. It  was  as  much  as  the  two  young  men  could  do,  in 
the  excited  state  of  their  nerves,  to  talk  and  act  as  if  noth- 
ing unusual  were  going  on.  Lord  Caradoc  had  forgotten 
that  there  was  anything  unusual,  and  neither  Cicely  nor 
Peggy  had  ever  known.  But  Mrs.  Herbert  was  as  nervous 
as  George  and  Guy,  and  the  conversation  round  the  dinner 
table  that  evening  was  not  remarkable  for  sustained  inter- 
est. It  was  over  before  nine  o'clock.  Lord  Caradoc  re- 
tired to  the  library,  and  the  two  younger  men  were  left  to 
themselves.  They  went  out  and  visited  the  watchers  on 
the  island  and  outside  the  walls.  Nothing  had  been  seen. 
When  they  returned  they  found  that  Mrs.  Herbert  had 
sent  the  two  girls  to  bed,  although  it  was  only  just  past 
ten  o'clock.  Then  followed  a  tedious  hour  in  which  the 
three  of  them  discussed  all  over  again  what  they  had 
already  discussed  a  dozen  times  before,  more  for  the  sake 
of  passing  the  time  than  because  they  expected  to  get  any 
new  light  on  the  mystery.  At  eleven  o'clock  George  and 
Guy  rowed  over  to  meet  Calthorp  and  Bobby  Conder  at 
the  landing  stage.  Their  train  had  been  delayed,  and  it 
was  nearly  half  an  hour  later  before  the  carriage  that 
brought  them  could  be  heard  rumbling  down  the  hill,  and 
its  lights  shone  out  of  the  darkness  as  it  turned  a  corner 
of  the  wooded  road  and  bore  down  upon  them. 

Calthorp  stepped  out  of  the  carriage  alert  and  eager. 

"  Has  anything  happened  ?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 


326          THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

"  Braithwaite  gave  your  men  the  slip,"  replied  Guy. 

"  I  know.  I  got  a  wire  at  Keswick.  Nothing  been  seen 
of  them  since  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing.  Brown  and  the  other  men  are  watching 
on  the  island.  The  other  three  are  outside  the  wall." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Calthorp.    "  Let  us  go  across." 

Bobby  Conder  now  came  forward  and  shook  hands 
with  Guy  and  George.  "  Come  up  just  in  time  to  lend  a 
hand,"  he  said  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  they  stepped 
into  the  boat.  There  would  have  been  a  broad  grin  on 
his  face  but  that  he  was  -ather  subdued  by  the  impor- 
tance of  the  crisis  on  which  they  were  entering. 

"  What  is  this  message  you  have  brought  for  me  ? " 
asked  Guy. 

"  I'll  tell  you  when  we  get  into  the  house,"  he  said. 

They  landed  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  A  dark  figure 
glided  out  from  behind  the  trees  on  the  right,  spoke  a 
few  words  to  Calthorp,  and  disappeared  again  into  the 
darkness.  The  two  men  on  the  island  were  keeping  a 
close  watch. 

"  By  Jove !  "  exclaimed  Bobby  as  they  mounted  the  ter- 
races and  a  gleam  of  the  moon  from  behind  the  scudding 
clouds  showed  the  white  facade  of  the  house  above  them. 
"  They  are  quite  right  to  call  this  place  a  fairy  palace." 

"  Yes.  And  we  are  going  to  scotch  the  ogre  to-night," 
said  Calthorp. 

Supper  was  laid  in  the  dining  room,  and  old  Feltham 
waited  upon  them  as  he  had  done  on  that  night  nine 
months  before  when  the  disappearance  of  Sir  Roderick's 
dead  body  had  first  been  made  known.  The  old  man  was 
now  well  on  in  years  and  his  powers  were  beginning  to 
fail.  Nothing  had  been  said  to  him  of  what  was  ex- 
pected to  happen,  and  they  dismissed  him  and  his 
attendant  footman  as  soon  as  possible. 


MARTIN   AT   LAST.  327 

"  What  is  your  message,  Bobby  ?  "  asked  Guy  as  soon 
as  the  four  men  were  left  together.  "  Has  it  anything  to 
do  with  this  business?  If  not  it  had  better  keep  a  bit." 

Bobby  Conder  drew  the  little  packet  of  papers  from  his 
pocket.  "  It  is  quite  possible  that  it  may  have  some  bear- 
ing on  it,"  he  said,  and  he  told  them  shortly  of  the  way  in 
which  the  papers  had  come  into  his  hands,  and  read  out 
the  instructions  the  old  squatter  had  given  to  his  grand- 
son. They  listened  to  him  with  breathless  attention. 

"  It  is  the  story  of  the  secret  chamber,"  said  Calthorp, 
"  and  it  has  come  from  the  other  side  of  the  world  in  the 
nick  of  time." 

Guy  took  the  worn  and  yellow  packet  into  his  hands 
and  turned  it  over. 

"  Open  it  afod  read  it  out,"  said  Calthorp.  "  It  may 
tell  us  exactly  what  we  want  to  know." 

Guy  broke  the  seal  and  disclosed  a  folded  sheet  of 
paper  with  close  writing  on  its  four  sides.  It  began 
without  any  preamble : — 

"  In  the  summer  of  17 —  I  was  employed  with  many 
others,  mostly  Italians,  in  rebuilding  the  house  of  Merri- 
lees,  Morthwaite,  Cumberland,  for  Sir  Michael  Bertram, 
Bart,  and  in  constructing  the  terraces  and  the  channel 
for  the  water.  The  mason's  work  had  been  going  on  for 
over  a  year  and  was  almost  finished.  I  was  called  one 
morning  into  the  office  of  the  overseer  of  the  works  with 
four  others,  all  Englishmen  and  good  reliable  workmen, 
and  we  were  told  that  when  the  Italians  had  been  sent 
away  we  five  would  be  kept  on  at  a  large  increase  in  wages 
to  do  some  more  mason's  work,  on  the  condition  that  we 
should  keep  that  work  secret.  After  some  difficulty  all  of 
us  agreed  to  do  so,  and  were  made  to  sign  papers  to 
that  effect.  Then  we  were  told  what  the  work  was  to 
be,  and  for  the  next  three  months  we  were  kept  busy  at  it. 


328  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  The  work  was  this.  First  of  all  we  dug  out  a  tunnel 
and  constructed  a  staircase  which  led  from  the  floor  of  the 
old  disused  chapel  in  the  west  wing  of  the  house  right 
under  the  terraces  outside  till  it  ended  at  a  point  immedi- 
ately beneath  the  cascade  and  below  the  level  of  the  lake. 
Then  we  dug  out  of  the  solid  rock  a  chamber  as  far  as 
I  remember  about  fourteen  feet  square.  After  that  we 
tunnelled  again  right  under  the  lake  and  made  a  passage 
which  came  out  at  the  little  Pagan  temple  which  had  been 
built  as  a  summer  house  in  a  thick  grove  of  trees  on  the 
west  bank  of  the  lake.  Most  of  our  tunnelling  was  done 
through  the  solid  rock,  and  when  we  came  to  earth  we  built 
up  the  passage  with  stone,  but  there  was  very  little  earth 
till  we  began  to  push  up  to  the  temple.  The  approaches  to 
the  staircase  and  tunnel  were  quite  open  at  this  time,  but 
all  other  work  about  the  house  had  been  left  off  while  we 
were  so  employed,  and  no  one  was  allowed  inside  the  walls 
of  the  park.  So  no  one  knew  what  was  going  on,  and  we 
were  bound  to  secrecy  by  our  oath. 

"  When  the  work  was  finished  the  other  four  men  were 
dismissed,  but  I  was  kept  on  along  with  a  blacksmith 
who  had  also  been  sworn  to  secrecy.  We  were  given 
instructions  as  to  how  the  approaches  to  this  chamber 
were  to  be  concealed,  and  carried  out  the  work  in  a  short 
time.  The  approach  from  the  chapel  is  under  the  old  stone 
altar.  The  north  side  of  the  altar  is  one  solid  block  of 
stone.  It  moves  on  iron  pivots  in  the  middle  if  it  is  pushed 
with  some  force  from  the  side  nearest  the  wall,  and  there  is 
no  fastening  except  a  slight  self-acting  spring  when  it  gets 
back  into  its  natural  position.  When  it  is  opened  to  its  lull 
extent  there  is  room  for  a  man  to  creep  through  to  the  stairs 
which  lead  down  into  the  chamber.  The  approach  from 
the  temple  to  the  tunnel  under  the  lake  is  something  similar. 
The  moving  stone  is  one  that  supports  the  platform  at  the 


MARTIN  AT  LAST.  329 

top  of  the  little  flight  of  steps  underneath  the  pillars.    It  is 
on  the  north  side. 

"  When  our  work  was  finished  I  was  paid  off,  but  the 
blacksmith  was  kept  on.  What  further  work  he  was  given 
to  do  I  do  not  know,  as  I  left  that  part  of  the  country  very 
soon  afterwards  and  never  saw  him  again. 

"  I  do  not  know  the  intentions  of  Sir  Michael  Bertram  in 
building  this  chamber  and  these  passages.  But  if  in  after 
years  they  are  used  wrongly  and  trouble  comes  from  it  this 
statement  may  put  things  right.  I  shall  be  dead  when  it  is 
used,  if  it  ever  is,  and  Sir  Michael  Bertram  is  dead  already. 
I  do  not  consider  that  I  have  broken  my  oath  of  secrecy  by 
writing  this  down  and  sealing  it  up. 

**JOHN  RAWLINGS." 

Very  little  notice  was  paid  to  the  last  part  of  the 
stonemason's  confession.  In  fact  Guy  omitted  the  final 
paragraph  entirely.  The  four  men  rose  to  their  feet  in 
uncontrollable  excitement.  The  doings  of  Martin  and 
Braithwaite  had  gone  out  of  their  heads  completely  for  the 
moment. 

"  Come  along,"  said  Guy,  and  he  snatched  up  a  heavy 
silver  candlestick  that  stood  on  the  table  and  made  for  the 
door. 

"  No,  no.  Wait,"  said  Calthorp.  "  Wait  till  the  coast 
is  clear.  The  servants  are  still  about." 

"  Ring  for  Feltham  and  tell  him  to  send  them  to  bed," 
said  George. 

"  The  chapel  is  quite  away  from  the  rest  of  the  house," 
said  Guy.  "  You  can  only  get  to  it  from  the  outside 
and  from  the  second  floor.  The  other  entrances  have 
been  blocked  up.  We  must  get  at  the  chapel  through 
Sir  Roderick's  rooms.  They  are  not  used  and  nobody 
is  there," 


330  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  We  had  better  all  take  candles,"  said  George,  *'  and,  by 
Jove !  Supposing  Martin  and  Braithwaite  are  there  !  " 

"  Get  some  thick  sticks,"  said  Calthorp.  "  I've  got  this,** 
and  he  put  his  hand  into  a  side  pocket  and  showed  a  glimpse 
of  a  wicked- looking  little  revolver. 

They  made  a  move  to  the  hall  where  a  row  of  candle- 
sticks was  standing  on  a  side  table. 

"  What  about  those  men  on  the  island  ?  **  asked  Bobby 
Conder.  "  It's  no  use  their  watching  for  a  boat.  The 
fellows  will  come  through  the  tunnel  from  the  temple." 

"  Yes,"  said  Caltborp.  "  I'll  go  and  send  them  both  over 
there  to  watch.  If  they  haven't  come  yet  they  will  catch 
them  nicely,  and  if  they  have,  we  shall.  Wait  here  till  I 
come  back."  He  was  out  of  the  house  in  a  moment. 

The  others  went  into  the  cloak  room  leading  out  of  the 
hall  and  selected  three  heavy  sticks.  The  grin  on  Bobby's 
face  could  no  longer  be  kept  back.  George  was  very  serious 
and  Guy  quivering  with  excitement.  Calthorp  returned  in 
a  few  minutes. 

"  I  have  sent  them  over  in  a  boat,"  he  said.  **  Now 
then." 

"  Guy  led  the  way  up  to  the  second  floor.  They  passed 
through  the  door  which  led  into  that  part  of  the  house 
which  had  been  occupied  by  Sir  Roderick  Bertram,  through 
the  other  door  at  the  end  of  the  broad  corridor  and  down 
the  winding  turret  stair,  treading  softly  one  after  the  other. 
They  reached  the  gloomy  little  chapel,  and  as  they  entered 
it  their  candles  flickered  and  a  waft  of  cold  night  air  met 
them.  The  heavy  oak  door  which  gave  access  to  the  chapel 
from  the  outside  stood  ajar.  They  looked  at  one  another 
and  Bobby  Conder's  grin  disappeared. 

They  turned  to  the  side  of  the  altar,  but  first  of  all 
Calthorp  closed  and  secured  the  open  door.  The  great 
stone  stood  open,  turned  on  its  pivot,  disclosing  a  narrow 


MARTIN   AT  LAST.  331 

stair  leading  down  in  the  darkness.  Each  of  the  four  men 
pressed  forward.  George  squeezed  himself  through  first, 
followed  by  Calthorp,  Guy  and  Bobby.  "  Don't  make  a 
sound,"  whispered  Calthorp,  as  they  crept  down  the  stair. 

The  steps  took  a  slight  turn  to  the  right  and  ran  down 
obliquely.  The  sounds  of  their  advance  were  drowned  by 
the  murmur  of  the  falling  water.  Down,  down,  they  went. 
The  stair  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  end.  The  murmur 
presently  became  a  roar  as  the  cascade  rushed  down  to  the 
lake  immediately  above  their  heads.  But  the  old  masons 
had  done  their  work  well.  The  passage  was  as  dry  as 
when  they  had  made  it  a  hundred  years  before.  Presently 
the  rushing  of  the  water  ceased.  They  were  below  the 
waters  of  the  lake,  but  still  the  steps  led  downwards. 

Calthorp  whispered  a  halt.  "  Leave  the  candles  here," 
he  said.  "  We  do  not  want  to  give  them  a  warning." 

They  put  the  four  candlesticks  against  the  wall  and 
continued  their  downward  way  more  cautiously  than  before- 
The  sound  of  falling  water  had  died  away  completely. 
George  suddenly  stopped  with  his  finger  to  his  lips.  The 
stair  took  a  turn  to  the  left  immediately  in  front  of  him, 
and  the  passage  broadened.  He  peeped  round  the  comer 
and  stepped  back  instantly.  The  other  three  crowded 
behind  him.  Some  ten  or  fifteen  yards  below  them  there 
was  a  door,  not  quite  shut.  Between  it  and  the  wall  was 
a  dim  line  of  light. 

They  stood  where  they  were  for  a  few  moments  in  complete 
silence.  There  was  no  sound  of  voices,  but  they  heard 
movements,  heavy  steps  on  a  stone  floor. 

"  Creep  down  altogether,"  whispered  Calthorp.  "  I  will 
throw  open  the  door.  George  and  Guy  tackle  the  one 
nearest  to  us.  Bobby  and  I  will  seize  the  other.  Now 
then,  ready !  " 

The  sounds  within  the  chamber  had  ceased.    They  crept 


33a  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

stealthily  down,  and  stood  for  a  moment  nerving  themselves 
for  the  rush. 

George  put  his  shoulder  to  the  door  and  dashed  it  open 
with  a  crash.  Then  he  fell  back  with  a  cry,  which  was 
echoed  by  his  side.  Calthorp  and  Bobby  Conder  had 
taken  two  steps  into  the  chamber.  They  found  themselves 
looking  into  the  muzzle  of  a  revolver  held  straight  towards 
them. 

In  the  middle  of  the  chamber  stood  a  man  facing  them. 
He  said  nothing,  but  eyed  them  fiercely,  still  covering  them 
with  his  weapon.  But  it  was  not  the  circle  of  the  revolver's 
muzzle  that  held  them  back  on  the  threshold. 

The  walls  of  the  chamber  were  faced  with  dressed  stone. 
Two  lighted  candles  were  held  by  sconces  fixed  to  them. 
On  the  floor,  in  some  disorder,  were  many  wooden  cases, 
and  directly  behind  the  man,  who  stood  like  a  statue  in 
the  middle  of  the  chamber,  was  a  raised  bed.  On  it  lay  a 
man  and  a  woman  side  by  side.  They  were  fully  dressed, 
but  the  woman's  dress,  although  beautiful  in  texture,  was 
old-fashioned  and  yellow  with  age.  They  lay  there  as  if 
asleep,  a  dark  and  handsome  pair.  Not  one  of  the  four 
young  men  but  knew  that  they  were  looking  on  the  bodies 
of  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  and  his  long- dead  wife. 

The  narrow  chamber  and  all  it  contained  flashed  on  to 
their  sight  and  was  fixed  on  their  brains  indelibly.  They 
stood  there  at  the  entrance  while  a  clock  might  have 
ticked  out  three  seconds.  The  man  stood  facing  them  with 
his  levelled  weapon. 

Then  suddenly  before  they  could  realise  it  the  scene 
suddenly  changed  into  one  of  dire  confusion  and  horror. 
A  harsh  grinding  sound  from  overhead  broke  the  silence. 
They  caught  sight  of  the  man's  face  changed  to  an 
expression  of  terror,  and  his  revolver  lowered,  and  then 
they  were  plunged  into  a  hissing  darkness  and  suddenly 


MARTIN   AT   LAST.  333 

involved  in  a  swirl  of  choking  water.  They  turned  with 
one  accord  and  fought  their  way  madly  up  the  narrow 
stair,  the  water  pouring  upwards  after  them  with  angry 
eddy  and  turmoil.  Bobby  Conder  was  knocked  down  once 
and  would  have  been  lost  had  not  his  flung-out  hand 
caught  that  of  George,  who  jerked  him  to  his  feet  and 
continued  the  breathless  race  upwards.  They  came  to  the 
place  where  they  had  left  their  candles,  but  the  water  was 
still  surging  above  their  knees,  and  the  light  which  had  guided 
them  was  suddenly  changed  again  to  black  darkness.  But 
now  they  were  saved,  and  under  the  roar  of  the  cascade 
paused,  gasping  and  terror-struck,  while  the  water  just 
below  them  subsided  into  a  level  floor,  even  with  the 
surface  of  the  lake  outside. 

"  He  is  down  there,"  sobbed  Guy.  *  It  came  from  the 
roof.  I  saw  it  strike  him  down." 

"  We  can't  save  him,"  gasped  Calthorp.   "  Let  us  get  up." 

They  made  their  way  up  in  silence,  dripping  and  ex- 
hausted by  the  shock  and  the  struggle,  until  they  stood 
once  more  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  little  chapel.  They 
opened  the  outer  door,  trembling  and  fumbling  at  the 
heavy  iron  bolts,  and  stood  once  more  in  the  light,  for  the 
moon  had  broken  through  the  clouds  and  shone  on  the 
peaceful  bosom  of  the  lake,  under  which  lay  the  dead  in 
their  watery  grave,  three  now  where  there  had  been  two 
resting  quietly. 

Two  men  came  running  up  the  terraces  towards  them  as 
they  moved  away  from  the  shadow  of  the  house  and  the 
trees. 

"They  are  on  the  island,"  shouted  the  foremost,  as  he 
descried  the  little  group,  and  when  he  had  come  up  to 
them,  "We  found  the  entrance  to  the  tunnel  and  went 
down.  The  water  met  us  and  we  got  away  just  in  time. 
They  must  have  got  through  and  flooded  the  passage." 


334  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  Where  is  Braithwaite  ?  "  asked  George  sharply. 

In  answer  Calthorp  began  running  down  the  terraces  by 
the  way  the  two  men  had  come  up.  *'  The  boat ! "  he 
cried. 

The  others  followed  him,  but  he  was  some  way  ahead  of 
them.  The  boat  by  which  the  two  men  had  put  themselves 
over  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps.  They  saw  a  man  dart 
out  from  among  the  trees,  throw  himself  into  it,  and  cut  at 
the  painter  with  a  knife.  But  Calthorp  was  upon  him. 
There  was  a  short  and  sharp  struggle,  and  then  the  others 
came  up,  and  in  a  very  short  time  Braithwaite  was  standing 
on  the  lower  steps  of  the  chair  handcuffed  between  the  two 
detectives. 

He  looked  round  on  the  six  men  sullenly. 

«  Where  is  Martin  ?  "  he  asked. 

*  Martin  is  drowned,"  replied  Calthorpt 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 
MRS.  HERBERT'S  STORY. 

IT  may  be  imagined  that  there  was  little  sleep  for  the 
actors  in  this  final  catastrophe  that  night.  The  house  was 
silent  and  asleep  now,  but  Braithwaite  was  taken  by  his 
captors  into  the  dining-room,  where  the  unfinished  supper 
still  remained  on  the  table.  There  the  four  young  men, 
after  they  had  changed  their  clothes,  joined  them. 

"  Now  you  needn't  say  anything,"  said  Calthorp  to  him. 
"  Whatever  you  do  say  will  be  used  in  evidence  at  your 
trial." 

"  Trial  ?    What  for  ?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  Why,  for  stealing  Sir  Roderick's  body  and  the  jewels,** 
replied  Calthorp. 

"  I  haven't  stolen  anything,"  said  Braithwaite.  "  And 
no  more  did  Martin.  What  we  had  was  given  to  us.  Sir 
Roderick's  body  has  been  resting  peaceful  where  he  wished 
it  to  be,  and  the  jewels  are  there  too.  Neither  of  us  took 
a  single  one,  nor  meant  to." 

"  The  jewels  belong  to  Sir  Guy  Bertram,  here,"  said 
Calthorp.  "  Whatever  you  meant  to  do  with  them  you 
have  kept  them  hidden  from  him  for  nearly  a  year.  There 
won't  be  much  difficulty  about  bringing  you  to  trial,  I 
think." 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you  all  I  know,"  said  Braithwaite. 
"  I've  done  nothing  wrong.  I've  only  done  what  Martin 
told  me  and  what  Sir  Roderick  wished.  And  now  they're 
both  dead  there's  no  reason  to  keep  silence." 


336  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

The  ex-gardener  did  not  look  like  a  criminal,  but  a  self- 
possessed  and  intelligent  if  somewhat  morose- looking  young 
man.  He  had  received  the  news  of  his  fellow-conspirator's 
terrible  death  without  much  sign  of  emotion,  and  even  his 
present  situation,  as  he  stood  handcuffed  between  the  two 
detectives,  did  not  seem  greatly  to  disturb  his  composure. 

Calthorp  eyed  him  narrowly  as  he  seated  himself  at  the 
table. 

"  You  can  take  those  things  off,**  he  said  to  the  men, 
"  and  wait  outside  till  I  call  for  you." 

Braithwaite  was  delivered  of  the  irons  on  his  wrists  and 
the  two  men  left  the  room. 

"  Now  then,"  said  Calthorp,  "  I've  warned  you.  But  you 
probably  won't  lose  anything  by  telling  a  true  and  straight- 
forward tale." 

And  this  was  the  tale  that  Braithwaite  told,  while  the 
four  men  sat  still  and  listened  with  all  their  ears : 

"  Sir  Roderick  and  Martin  had  secrets  together.  About 
five  years  ago  they  began  to  take  me  into  some  of  them, 
but  I  never  knew  much.  Martin  told  me  he'd  seen  I  could 
keep  things  to  myself,  and  if  I  would  do  what  I  was  told 
I  shouldn't  be  asked  to  do  anything  wrong,  and  I  should 
be  well  paid  for  it. 

"  He  told  me  about  the  vault  down  there  and  what  was 
in  it.  But  I  was  never  allowed  to  go  there,  and  I  couldn't 
have  found  out  the  way.  All  I'd  got  to  do  was  to  wait 
for  Sir  Roderick's  death,  and  when  that  took  place  I  was 
to  help  Martin  to  embalm  his  body  in  a  way  which  he 
told  me,  and  to  help  him  to  take  it  down  there  and  lay  it 
by  the  side  of  my  lady.  Then  I  was  to  clear  out  to 
America  with  a  thousand  pounds  and  hold  my  tongue. 

"  When  Sir  Roderick  died  last  June  Martin  was  away 
in  London.  They  sent  him  word,  but  when  he  came  Sir 
Roderick  was  past  knowing  him.  He  was  terrible  upset. 


MRS.  HERBERT'S  STORY.  337 

It  seemed  as  if  he  didn't  know  what  to  do.  But  that 
night  we  carried  the  body  of  our  master  out  of  his  room 
and  did  what  we  had  been  told  and  laid  it  beside  the 
other. 

"  Then  Martin  told  me  that  he'd  swore  to  Sir  Roderick 
to  keep  something  secret  till  the  I4th  of  March  this  year — 
that's  to-morrow — and  it  had  to  do  with  the  jewels 
amongst  other  things.  So  we  took  and  packed  them  in 
boxes  and  carried  them  down  to  the  vault. 

"  Then  Martin  gave  me  a  hundred  pounds  in  gold  and 
said  I  was  to  go  over  to  America  and  he  would  send  the 
rest  of  the  money  that  had  been  promised  to  me  when  I 
got  there.  But  he  said  that  I  must  come  over  again  to  be 
ready  to  do  something  this  March.  I  promised  him  and  I 
went  away.  We  trusted  each  other.  We  got  through  the 
tunnel  under  the  lake  and  through  the  little  gate  at  the 
other  end  of  the  park. 

"  I  settled  in  New  York  and  he  sent  me  the  money.  He 
wrote  to  me  from  Glasgow.  Sir  Roderick  had  given  him 
a  greal  deal  of  money,  and  he  had  changed  his  name  and 
gone  into  business  there.  Last  month  he  wrote  and  told 
me  to  come  over  and  stay  in  Liverpool  till  I  heard  from 
him.  He  sent  me  money  for  my  passage.  When  I  got  there 
he  wrote  and  told  me  to  meet  him  at  eleven  o'clock 
to-night  by  the  temple.t  I  was  to  be  careful  and  not  be 
seen  in  case  of  the  place  being  watched.  I  started  off  by 
train  and  found  that  these  two  men  were  following  me.  I 
jumped  off  the  train  just  as  we  got  through  a  tunnel  and 
didn't  hurt  myself.  Then  I  walked  across  the  hills  to  the 
other  end  of  the  park.  I  saw  the  entrance  was  being 
watched.  I  went  to  another,  and  saw  that  was  watched 
too.  Then  a  man  came  out  from  the  trees  and  I  thought 
I  was  caught.  But  it  was  Martin.  We  helped  each 
other  over  the  wall  and  got  into  the  vault  through  the 

H.M.  t 


338  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

passage  under  the  lake.  Then  we  went  up  through  the 
chapel  and  outside.  We  saw  the  two  men  watching  the 
shores  of  the  island. 

"  Then  Martin  took  me  down  through  the  trees  by  the 
side  of  the  steps  to  the  lake.  He  scraped  away  the  earth 
under  a  bush  and  there  was  a  stone,  which  he  lifted. 
Under  it  was  a  sort  of  handle.  He  said  if  that  was  turned 
round  as  far  as  it  would  go  the  vault  and  tunnels  would 
be  flooded.  I  was  to  turn  it  and  let  the  water  in  when  I 
got  a  signal  from  him. 

"  I  went  up  with  him  again  and  stayed  behind  a  tree 
near  the  chapel  door.  He  said  he  was  going  to  carry  the 
boxes  of  jewels  into  the  chapel,  and  it  might  take  him 
half  an  hour  or  an  hour.  The  chapel  door  was  to  be  kept 
a  little  open,  and  when  he  shut  it  I  was  to  go  down  and 
turn  the  handle. 

"  Martin  said  we  were  safe,  because,  although  I  had  been 
tracked,  no  one  would  think  we  could  get  on  to  the  island 
without  a  boat.  I  asked  him  how  we  were  to  get  away 
again  with  the  tunnel  flooded  and  the  boats  watched.  He 
said  we  shouldn't  want  to  get  away.  He  said  Sir  Guy 
Bertram  was  in  the  house,  and  when  he  had  done  what  he 
wanted  to  he  should  tell  him  what  he  wanted  to  know. 
But  he  shouldn't  tell  him  about  Sir  Roderick's  body  nor 
about  the  vault,  and  I  was  to  keep  that  secret  too. 

"Then  he  went  into  the  chapel  and  I  waited  there.  I 
didn't  hear  him  inside,  but  I  was  some  way  off  and  only 
looking  for  the  door  to  be  shut. 

"  At  last  I  heard  him  as  I  thought  shut  the  door.  I 
suppose  it  was  one  of  you  gentlemen.  But  how  was  I  to 
know  ?  Poor  fellow  !  I  wish  I  had  known.  I  went  down 
and  turned  the  handle.  It  was  very  stiff,  and  I  tried  with 
all  my  might  before  I  could  move  it.  At  last  I  did  it,  and 
then  I  saw  the  water  turning  round  and  round  in  the  lake 


MRS.  HERBERT'S  STORY.  339 

a  few  yards  from  the  shore,  and  heard  it  rushing  below  me. 
It  shook  the  ground  where  I  was  standing. 

"  Then  I  went  up  to  the  chapel  door  and  waited.  You 
nearly  caught  me  when  you  came  out.  I  suppose  I  lost  my 
head.  I  ran  down  to  the  lake  through  the  trees  and  saw 
the  two  men  coming  up  the  stairs.  Then  I  saw  their  boat 
and  tried  to  get  away  in  it.  And  that's  all  I  know,  sir, 
and  all  I've  done." 

Calthorp,  busy  with  pencil  and  note-book,  asked  a  few 
questions,  but  the  man  had  evidently  told  all  that  he  knew, 
and  the  real  mystery  was  still  unfathomed.  The  other 
three  sat  silent. 

"Well,"  said  Calthorp,  "You've  told  us  a  plain  story, 
but  of  course  you'll  have  to  tell  it  again.  The  warrant  for 
your  arrest  has  been  out  for  a  good  many  months."  He 
summoned  the  men  who  were  waiting  outside  the  room. 
"  You  can  take  him  across  to  Morthwaite,"  he  said,  "  and 
one  of  you  had  better  tell  the  three  others  that  their  work 
is  over." 

Braithwaite  made  no  further  remark  and  no  resistance. 
He  left  the  room  quietly  with  his  captors. 

"That  explains  the  disappearance  of  Sir  Roderick's 
body,"  said  Calthorp,  when  the  four  were  alone  again. 
"What  the  hiding  of  the  jewels  means,  I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  we  never  shall  know  now  that  Martin  is  dead,  but 
the  chief  thing  is  that  we  have  got  them  back." 

"  The  jewels  are  buried  beneath  fathoms  of  water,"  said 
Bobby  Conder. 

"  It  will  not  be  a  difficult  matter  to  get  them  out.  The 
jewels,  and — and  whatever  else  is  there  besides.  Oh,  my 
God — that  was  an  awful  moment !  " 

Calthorp  had  listened  to  Braithwaite's  story  with  the 
same  cool,  alert  air  as  he  had  listened  to  Bridden's  the 
morning  before,  and  he  had  spoken  afterwards  as  if  wholly 

*  a 


340  THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

uninfluenced  by  the  scene  of  horror  he  had  been  through, 
Now  suddenly  he  was  a  weak,  broken  man.  He  put  his 
head  on  his  arm  and  sobbed. 

The  others  took  no  more  notice  of  his  outbreak  than  if 
it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  Bobby 
Conder's  round  cheerful  face  was  very  grave,  and  George 
and  Guy  sat  in  their  chairs  pale  and  troubled. 

Calthorp  pulled  himself  together  almost  instantly. 

"  Poor  devil,"  he  said,  "  Poor,  poor  devil !  " 

"  You  don't  know  everything  yet,"  said  Guy  huskily. 

"  Don't  know  everything  ?  Why,  what  more  is  there  to 
know  ? " 

"  You  don't  know  who  it  is  that  lies  drowned  down 
there  ?  " 

"  It's  Martin.    Surely  it's  Martin." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  Martin.  But  Martin  was — you  tell 
him,  George." 

"  You  heard  Braithwaite  say  that  Martin  had  gone  into 
business  in  Glasgow  and  changed  his  name,"  said  George. 
"  I  have  known  him  under  that  other  name  all  my  life. 
It  was  Richards,  poor  little  Peggy's  father,  who  stood  there 
when  we  went  in.  And  we  shall  have  to  tell  her  to-morrow 
morning." 

Calthorp  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  But  it  was 
plain  that  his  keen  orderly  brain  had  given  way  for  the 
moment  and  was  unable  to  take  in  new  impressions. 

"  You  must  tell  me  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  get 
hold  of  it  to-night.  I'm  going  to  bed." 

"We  had  better  all  go  to  bed,  I  think,"  said  Bobby 
Conder.  "  We  have  had  a  narrow  escape,  and  we'd  better 
think  it  over." 

He  and  Calthorp  went  out  of  the  room.  Guy  and 
George  were  left  facing  one  another.  Both  of  them  had 
much  to  say  to  one  another,  but  neither  of  them  knew 


MRS.  HERBERT'S  STORY.  341 

where  to  begin,  and  they  stood  in  awkward  silence,  their 
eyes  on  the  ground. 

The  door  of  the  room  opened  again  and  Mrs.  Herbert 
came  in.  She  looked  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other  and 
noticed  their  troubled  faces. 

"  Something  dreadful  has  happened,"  she  exclaimed, "  Tell 
me  what  it  is." 

She  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  George  told  her  what  had 
taken  place.  He  did  not  tell  her  that  it  was  Richards  whom 
they  had  seen  when  they  burst  into  the  chamber,  but  when 
he  described  how  the  water  had  poured  in  and  how  he  had 
been  left  behind  in  the  flooded  chamber,  she  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

44  Oh,  poor  little  Peggy !  "  she  cried. 

Both  of  them  exclaimed  at  her. 

M  Yes,  oh  yes,  I  know  who  it  is,"  she  said,  *  I  know  that 
Martin  and  Richards  were  the  same.  If  I  had  told  what  I 
suspected  before,  this  dreadful  thing  might  not  have  come 
to  pass.  I  wanted  to  save  the  scandal.  But  why  didn't  I  ? 
Oh,  why  didn't  I  ?  " 

"  How  long  have  you  known  ?  **  asked  George. 

**  I  suspected  it  for  a  long  time,"  she  said,  "  and  I  was 
sure  of  it  when  I  went  to  Glasgow.  But  I  had  better  tell 
you  my  story,  and  you  must  both  of  you  be  prepared  to 
receive  further  surprises." 

She  wiped  away  the  tears  she  had  shed  when  the  news  of 
the  terrible  death  had  been  revealed  to  her,  and  composed 
herself  to  her  usual  tranquillity  of  manner. 

"And — Sir  Guy,"  she  said,  **I  am  afraid  you  must 
prepare  yourself  for  a  bitter  disappointment,  for  although 
it  is  possible  that  all  my  conclusions  may  not  be  right,  yet 
I  do  not  think  that  I  am  mistaken  in  them." 

Guy  made  no  reply,  and  Mrs.  Herbert  began  her  story. 

*  I  was  travelling  in  Italy  with  my  dear  husband  just 


342  THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

twenty-five  years  ago,'*  she  said,  "  we  were  on  our  honey- 
moon. We  were  staying  in  an  hotel  at  Assisi,  and  Sir 
Roderick  and  Lady  Bertram  were  in  the  same  hotel.  I 
think  I  told  you  this  when  I  first  knew  you.  Martin, 
Sir  Roderick's  valet,  was  with  them,  and  I  saw  them  often 
Lady  Bertram  was  expecting  her  confinement  very  shortly. 
There  was  another  lady  in  the  hotel,  and  she  was  in  great 
trouble.  She  had  been  forsaken  by  her  husband,  who  was 
a  thoroughly  bad  man.  She  had  just  given  birth  to  a 
delicate  child,  and  when  she  should  be  well  enough  to 
leave  her  room  she  would  have  nowhere  to  go  to  and  would 
be  absolutely  penniless.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  I  got  to 
know  her,  but  I  did,  and  she  told  me  her  story.  She  was 
wrapped  up  in  her  baby.  It  was  the  only  thing  in  life  she 
had  to  cling  to,  but  I  saw  that  the  poor  little  thing  was 
not  likely  to  live  long,  and  I  feared  that  if  it  was  taken 
from  her  she  would  die  too. 

"  On  the  twelfth  of  March  I  was  taken  ill  myself,  and  was 
in  bed  for  a  few  days.  When  I  got  up  again  I  heard  that 
Sir  Roderick  and  Lady  Bertram  had  left  the  hotel  on  the 
following  day,  and  the  lady  I  speak  of  had  gone  with  them. 
I  know  that  Lady  Bertram  had  taken  an  interest  in  her, 
and  I  was  glad  to  think  that  she  would  be  cared  for.  I 
never  saw  her  again.  But  her  name  was  Mrs.  Greenfield, 
and  when  you  showed  me  a  photograph  of  your  mother  I 
recognised  it  as  that  of  my  friend." 

George  made  no  movement  of  surprise.  "It  is  very 
extraordinary,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  that  our  stories 
should  be  mixed  up  in  this  way.  Have  you  anything  more 
to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,  "  I  have.  I  saw  Mrs.  Green- 
field's baby  before  she  left  the  hotel.  One  of  it's  poor 
little  arms  was  all  twisted  and  deformed.  Her  wretched 
husband  had  ill-used  her  not  very  long  before  the  child 


MRS.  HERBERT'S  STORY.  343 

was  born.    And  it  had  blue  eyes  like  its  mother,  and  very 
fair  hair." 

"  You  mean,"  said  George,  "  that  I  am  not  the  child  that 
was  born  at  Assisi  ?  " 

"  You  are  as  unlike  it  as  you  could  possibly  be,  but  the 
little  twisted  arm  proves  conclusively  that  you  cannot  be." 

"  Then  who  am  I  ?     Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  But  I  can  guess,  and  I  am  pretty  cer- 
tain that  I  can  guess  right.  I  believe  you  are  the  son  that 
was  born  to  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  at  Foligno  twenty-five 
years  ago  to-morrow — or  rather  to-day." 

"  Good  God !  "  exclaimed  George,  "  why  do  you  say 
that  ?  " 

Mrs.  Herbert  rose  from  her  seat,  and  taking  a  candle  from 
the  table  held  it  in  front  of  the  picture  of  Sir  Roderick 
Bertram. 

"  First  of  all,  look  at  that,"  she  said. 

The  two  men  stood  gazing  at  the  picture,  and  Guy 
looked  from  it  to  George.  "  The  likeness  is  extraordinary," 
he  said,  "  I  wonder  no  one  has  noticed  it  before." 

"  It  doesn't  go  far  as  proof,"  said  George,  maintaining  a 
strong  hold  on  his  excitement. 

Mrs.  Herbert  put  the  candle  on  the  table  and  sat  down 
again. 

"  Mrs.  Greenfield  left  the  hotel  with  Sir  Roderick  and 
Lady  Bertram,  as  I  told  you,"  she  said,  "  and  all  the 
charges  she  had  incurred  were  paid.  Our  own  next 
stopping-place,  my  husband's  and  mine,  happened  to 
be  at  Foligno,  where  Lady  Bertram  had  been  unexpectedly 
confined,  and  where  she  had  died.  I  heard  there  that 
Mrs.  Greenfield  had  gone  on  with  Sir  Roderick  after 
Lady  Bertram's  death,  and  I  also  learnt  that  the  child  was 
alive  and  under  her  care.  Now  you  told  me  that  she  lived 
at  Highgate  on  her  own  money,  and  that  her  affairs  were 


344  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

administered  for  her  by  Mr.  Richards,  whom  we  know  now 
to  have  been  Martin.  Where  did  the  money  come  from  ? 
She  had  never  seen  her  husband  again  until  the  last  weeks 
of  her  life,  and  had  thought  him  dead.  And  when  she  did 
see  him  he  was  destitute  and  she  was  giving  him  money. 
It  could  not  have  come  from  him.  And  there  was  money 
for  your  education  and  start  in  life,  and  Mr.  Richards 
offended  you  by  trying  to  influence  your  choice  of  a  col- 
lege. Where  did  that  money  come  from,  and  why  should  he 
have  interfered  ?  What  should  he  know  about  the  college  at 
Cambridge  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  that  the  money  came  from  my  father,"  said 
George. 

"  It  came,"  said  Mrs.  Herbert,"  from  Sir  Roderick  Bertram, 
through  Martin." 

Guy  got  up  from  his  chair  and  laughed  unsteadily.  "  No 
wonder  Mr.  Richards  wanted  to  know  what  I  should  do  with 
myself  if  I  lost  everything,"  he  said.  "  You  are  Sir  George 
Bertram,  and  I  am — nobody." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Guy,"  said  George.  "  You  are  what  you 
have  always  been.  The  whole  story  is  wildly  improbable. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Herbert.  What  you  have  told  us 
is  very  extraordinary,  and  as  far  as  your  facts  go  they  are 
not  to  be  contradicted.  But  we  shall  find  some  other 
explanation  of  them.  It  is  I  who  shall  turn  out  to  be 
nobody." 

"  I  do  not  think  so,*'  she  replied,  "  and  I  hope  for  your 
sake  that  it  may  not  be  so,  although  I  am  very  sorry 
that  all  this  mystery  and  secrecy  will  fall  so  heavily  on 
Sir  Guy." 

"I  don't  doubt  your  conclusions," said  Guy.  "They  are 
absolutely  convincing.  George,  let  me  be  the  first  to  greet 
you  as  the  head  of  my  family  and  as  my  very  respected 
cousin.  It's  all  a  matter  of  luck,  and  there's  nobody  I 


MRS.  HERBERT'S  STORY.  545 

would  rather  see  take  his  share  of  it  than  you.  Now  I'm 
off  to  bed." 

He  went  out  of  the  room  without  another  word.  There 
was  nothing  in  his  manner  except  an  unwonted  excitement 
to  show  how  hard  he  had  been  hit  by  Mrs.  Herbert's 
communication. 

"  Poor  chap !  "  said  George.  "  If  you  are  right  after  all, 
Mrs.  Herbert,  I  shall  feel  like  a  pretender.1* 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

THE   MYSTERY  CLEARING. 

THE  last  piece  of  machinery  to  be  affected  by  the  most 
cataclysmic  crises  in  human  life  is  the  domestic  routine  of 
a  large  household.  The  party  at  Merrilees  met  at  breakfast 
on  that  fourteenth  of  March  as  usual,  and  when  George 
entered  the  dining-room,  where  he  had  heard  the  news  so 
momentous  as  far  as  his  future  prospects  were  concerned 
only  a  few  hours  before,  he  found  Mrs.  Herbert  presiding 
over  the  tea  and  coffee  service,  and  helped  himself  to  the 
dishes  on  the  side  table  as  if  after  a  quiet  night  there  was 
nothing  before  them  but  a  day  of  ordinary  work  and 
ordinary  pleasure.  Bobby  Conder  a£d  Calthorp  followed 
him  after  a  short  interval.  Lord  Caradoc  greeted  the 
former  and  accepted  the  presence  of  the  latter  without 
comment,  as  if  the  appearance  of  a  stranger  at  the  break- 
fast table  in  a  house  ten  miles  away  from  the  nearest 
railway  station  were  one  of  the  most  ordinary  occurrences 
in  the  world.  He  had  been  told  that  Calthorp  was  coming, 
who  he  was,  and  what  he  was  coming  for ;  but  the  in- 
formation had  not  interested  him,  and  he  now  talked 
placidly  to  George,  totally  oblivious  of  anything  out  of 
the  common  that  was  taking  place  in  the  house  of 
Merrilees. 

George  found  it  very  difficult  to  attend  to  him,  and  to 
make  suitable  replies,  and  was  relieved  when  Bobby  Conder's 
arrival  turned  the  conversation  to  that  statesman's  expe- 
riences of  travel.  He  sat  opposite  to  Peggy,  whose  bright 


THE  MYSTERY    CLEARING.  347 

face,  as  she  and  Cicely  laughed  and  talked  together,  showed 
how  happy  and  contented  she  was  at  the  present  moment, 
and  he  reproached  himself  somewhat  because  during  the 
few  nearly  sleepless  hours  he  had  spent  alone  he  had  given 
but  little  thought  to  Peggy  and  the  trouble  that  was 
coming  to  her.  He  had  gone  over  Mrs.  Herbert's  story  in 
his  mind  again  and  again,  and  the  circumstance  of  its 
details  had  forced  him  into  a  belief  that  the  mystery  of 
his  birth  was  cleared  up.  He  had  emerged  from  struggling 
obscurity  into  the  light  of  an  honourable  name  and  a  great 
position  in  the  world,  and  as  he  looked  at  Cicely  he  could 
not  prevent  his  heart  leaping  with  a  sudden  impulse 
of  happiness.  The  rosy  gleam  died  away.  There  was 
much  to  go  through  before  the  difficulties  and  the  dis- 
coveries that  were  thronging  about  them  should  adjust 
themselves  to  new  conditions. 

Guy  came  down  last  of  all,  when  Lord  Caradoc  had 
already  left  the  table.  His  face  was  pale,  and  there  were 
dark  rings  under  his  eyes.  George  reproached  himself 
again  for  his  thoughts  when  he  saw  him.  Whatever  of 
satisfaction  the  new  conditions  might  bring  to  him,  it 
seemed  that  the  man  whose  life  had  hitherto  passed  so 
pleasantly  and  so  easily  could  only  lose  everything  that  he 
possessed  and  most  of  what  he  hoped  for. 

The  two  girls  lingered  while  the  late-comers  ate  their 
breakfast.  They  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened,  but 
it  was  impossible  but  that  an  air  of  constraint  should  make 
itself  felt.  Presently  Mrs.  Herbert  went  out  of  the  room 
and  they  followed  her. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Peggy,"  said  George  gravely,  as 
he  opened  the  door  for  them.  "  I  will  come  to  you  in  the 
morning  room  presently." 

Peggy  looked  at  him  with  a  trace  of  alarm  in  her  eyes. 

"  Very  well,  George,"  she  said. 


348  THE  HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

"Do  these  two  know  what  Mrs.  Herbert  told  us  last 
night  ?  "  asked  Guy  when  he  came  back  to  the  table. 

"  No,"  said  George. 

"  Better  tell  them,"  said  Guy,  "  I  have  been  thinking  it 
over  all  the  night.  I  haven't  had  a  wink  of  sleep.  It  must 
be  true,  and  the  sooner  it's  out  the  better." 

"  Well,  let  us  go  into  the  smoking  room,"  said  George. 

All  traces  of  Calthorp's  breakdown  of  the  night  before 
had  disappeared.  His  face  was  keen  and  set  as  the  four  of 
them  went  into  the  smoking  room,  and  the  door  was  closed 
behind  them.  In  the  conversation  that  followed  there  was 
little  sign  of  emotion  in  the  part  he  took  or  the  views  he 
put  forward,  and  there  was  that  in  his  manner  which 
indicated  that  he  would  have  resented  any  allusion  to  the 
wholly  human  episode  which  had  for  a  moment  brought 
the  man  of  feeling  to  the  surface  through  the  crust  of  light 
cynicism  which  represented  his  character  to  nine-tenths  of 
his  acquaintances.  He  exhibited  no  surprise  when  Mrs. 
Herbert's  story  of  the  night  before  had  been  unfolded  to  him, 
but  quickly  adjusted  it  in  his  mind  to  the  train  of  events 
which  had  preceded  it,  refraining  even  from  comment  upon 
the  effects  it  would  have  upon  the  lives  of  two  of  his  friends. 

"  The  story  hangs  together  too  well  not  to  carry  weight 
with  it,"  he  said  when  he  had  heard  all  that  could  be  told 
him.  "  The  only  thing  that  is  actually  proved  by  it  is  that 
George  is  not  the  child  that  was  born  to  Mrs.  Greenfield  in 
Italy.  The  whole  course  of  events  is  so  remarkable  that 
there  may  very  well  be  some  other  explanation  of  them 
than  that  which  Mrs.  Herbert  has  hit  upon.  There  may  be 
something  among  Martin's  papers  that  will  throw  light  on 
the  whole  affair.  Now  that  he  is  dead  it  is  the  only  thing 
to  hope  for.  And  there  is  a  great  deal  that  is  unexplained. 
Why,  for  instance,  should  Sir  Roderick  have  disowned  his 
own  son  ?  " 


THE  MYSTERY  CLEARING.  349 

"  He  was  devoted  to  his  wife,"  suggested  Bobby  Couder 
diffidently,  "  and  the  birth  of  the  child  cost  her  her  life. 
That  might  be  the  explanation." 

"  It  is  the  only  possible  one.  Now,  Martin  was  preparing 
to  disclose  a  certain  mystery  and  to  deliver  up  the  jewels 
to-day.  That  is  on  what  would  have  been  the  twenty-fifth 
anniversary  of  Lady  Bertram's  death,  and  also  of  the 
child's  birth.  By-the-bye,  George,  what  day  has  been  kept 
as  your  birthday  ?  " 

"  The  fourteenth  of  March — to-day,"  said  George. 

The  four  men  looked  at  one  another.  "  That  proves  it," 
said  Guy.  "  Mrs.  Greenfield's  baby  was  born  some  time 
before." 

"  It  is  another  piece  of  evidence,"  said  Calthorp. 
"  Although  I  did  not  know  of  this  new  complication,  and 
have  not  had  time  to  adjust  my  ideas  to  it,  I  have  been 
thinking  things  over  and  putting  two  and  two  together,  and 
I  think  I  can  see  a  little  further  into  the  mystery  than  I  did 
last  night." 

"  In  the  first  place  everything  points  to  this,  that  at  the 
time  we  have  now  reached  there  was  to  have  been  some 
great  change  in  Sir  Roderick's  life.  The  conversion  of  his 
great  fortune  into  jewels  would  have  been  completed.  His 
book  would  have  been  finished.  What  was  the  change 
to  be?" 

"  He  was  going  to  recognise  his  son,"  said  Guy. 

M  That  may  have  been,"  said  Calthorp, "  But  if  it  were  so 
it  would  not  contradict  what  I  think  was  going  to  happen. 
You  remember  the  answer  that  Sir  Roderick  gave  to  the 
bank  manager  who  asked  him  what  he  proposed  to  do  for 
an  income  when  he  had  turned  all  his  capital  into  jewels," 

"  He  said  that  at  the  end  of  fifteen  years  he  should  not 
want  an  income,"  said  Guy. 

**  Exactly.    We   thought,   if  you  remember,   that  that 


350  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

answer  might  have  been  accounted  for  by  a  presentiment  of 
death  on  his  part.  As  a  matter  of  fact  his  death  came 
naturally  some  six  months  before  the  end  of  the  fifteen 
years,  and  he  was  plainly  unprepared  for  it.  He  was  a 
perfectly  healthy  man  with  no  tendency  to  disease,  accord- 
ing to  the  doctor.  Why  should  he  have  expected  his  death 
at  a  certain  definite  date  ? " 

"  I  don't  quite  see  what  you  are  driving  at,"  said  Guy. 

"  I  will  tell  you.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  if 
he  had  not  been  carried  off  last  June,  Sir  Roderick  Bertram 
would  have  taken  his  own  life — to-day." 

There  was  a  pause  of  astonishment.  "  What  evidence 
have  you  got  of  that  ? "  asked  George. 

0  No  direct  evidence,  of  course.  But  it  is  the  only  solu- 
tion that  answers  all  the  unexplained  difficulties  of  his 
actions.  A  man  may  have  a  presentiment  of  death  to  come 
to  him  in  a  certain  year,  but  no  man  would  so  order  his  life 
for  at  least  fifteen  years  on  the  conviction  that  it  was  going 
to  end  on  a  certain  day  or  in  a  certain  month.  We  know 
that  Sir  Roderick  did  not  expect  to  die  before  to-day  because 
his  death  found  his  preparations  incomplete.  And  there  is 
no  trace  of  any  provision  made  for  his  living  here  or  any- 
where else  after  to-day,  although  of  course  he  would  never 
have  wanted  for  money  if  he  had  lived. 

"Then  again  these  instructions  to  Martin.  Martin  was 
to  do  certain  things.  He  was  not  told  to  hide  the  jewels. 
That  was  his  own  idea,  and  I  haven't  been  able  to  fit  it 
in.  But  if  this  new  story  about  the  son  is  true,  it  was 
probably  because  Sir  Roderick  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
recognise  him  as  his  heir,  but  not  until  his  twenty- fifth 
birthday,  or  after  Sir  Roderick's  own  death.  And  Martin 
kept  as  far  as  he  could  to  what  he  knew  were  his  master's 
wishes.  He  was  possibly  under  oath. 

"  Well,  there  was  nothing  about  hiding  the  jewels.     But 


THE   MYSTERY  CLEARING.  351 

the  preparations  for  Sir  Roderick's  death  and  the  disposal 
of  his  body  were  definitely  made,  and  the  date  of  it,  not 
exactly  but  approximately,  communicated  to  Braithwaite. 
I  think  that  Sir  Roderick  meant  to  take  his  own  life  at 
this  time.  His  body  would  have  been  laid  by  the  side  of 
his  wife,  and  his  place  of  burial  destroyed  by  the  letting  in 
of  the  water.  How  the  necessary  secrecy  would  have  been 
preserved  of  course  we  can't  guess.  Then  Martin  would 
have  produced  an  account  of  his  stewardship,  all  plain 
and  above  board  from  those  wonderfully  kept  books 
upstairs,  and  the  heir  would  have  stepped  into  his  place." 

"  It  is  an  ingenious  theory,"  said  George,  "  but  what 
bearing  has  it  on  what  has  happened  ? " 

"  Perhaps  little,"  admitted  Calthorp.  "  But  one  or  two 
points  seem  clear.  It  is  unlikely  that  Sir  Roderick  made  a 
will.  There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  have  done  so 
before  his  arrangements  were  completed  if  he  expected  his 
death  at  a  certain  date,  and  if  he  had  done  so  Martin 
would  hardly  have  dared  to  keep  it  back,  because  you 
see,  from  what  Braithwaite  told  us,  he  was  prepared  to 
make  himself  known  to-day,  and  must  have  relied  on 
the  fact  that  in  what  he  has  done  he  was  acting  on 
Sir  Roderick's  instructions  to  exonerate  him  from  all 
blame.  He  would  have  told  us  all  that  there  was  to  tell 
by  word  of  mouth,  and  therefore  I  am  afraid  it  is  unlikely 
that  we  shall  find  any  written  explanation  of  the  mystery 
among  his  papers." 

"  His  word  would  not  be  enough  to  prove  that  George 
was  Sir  Roderick's  son,"  said  Guy. 

"  It  probably  would,"  said  Calthorp,  "  if  he  gave 
evidence  under  oath.  But  of  that  I  knew  nothing  last 
night.  It  is  possible  that  he  brought  with  him  papers  to 
prove  that  if  it  is  the  case.  If  so,  they  will  be  found  on 
his  body." 


35»  THE  HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

'  And  that  brings  us,"  said  George,  "  to  what  we  have 
to  do  now.  Everyone  in  the  house  must  be  told.  I  am 
going  to  ask  Mrs.  Herbert  to  tell  poor  little  Peggy.  She 
will  do  it  better  than  I.  Who  is  to  tell  Lord  Caradoc  ?  ** 

"  You  had  better,  I  think,"  said  Guy. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bobby,  "  it  had  better  come  from  you.** 

"Very  well,"  said  George.  "And  what  steps  arc  you 
going  to  take,  Dick  ?  " 

"  We  must  take  immediate  steps  to  get  the  water  out  of 
the  chamber  and  tunnels,"  said  Calthorp.  "  I  had  better 
arrange  for  that  now.  I  think  that  Lord  Caradoc  ought  to 
be  persuaded  to  leave  the  house  for  a  time.  It  will  become 
the  centre  of  popular  excitement  again  now,  and  for  other 
reasons  he  will  not  be  happy  here  for  the  present." 

"  I  am  afraid  he  will  be  a  good  deal  upset  by  the  news,** 
said  George.  "  I  will  go  and  tell  him  at  once." 

Lord  Caradoc  was,  undoubtedly,  greatly  upset.  He 
found  it  impossible  to  take  in  the  story  in  its  entirety,  but 
he  realised  sufficiently  that  the  coming  disturbances  at 
Merrilees  would  make  it  impossible  for  him  to  continue  his 
residence  there  for  the  present,  and  he  delivered  an  ulti- 
matum to  Mrs.  Herbert  that  his  household  would  have 
to  be  moved  back  to  Berkeley  Square  not  later  than  the 
following  day. 

Peggy  received  the  news  of  her  father's  life-story  and  of 
his  death  with  shocked  surprise,  but  with  no  very  violent 
expressions  of  grief. 

"  I  had  never  learnt  to  love  him,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
wept  a  little  on  Mrs.  Herbert's  shoulder.  "  But  he  was  never 
unkind  to  me  while  I  was  with  him  in  Glasgow,  and  I  know 
he  liked  to  have  me  there  with  him."  She  went  to  London 
with  her  new  friends  the  next  day,  and  remained  there 
while  the  sad  duties  that  had  to  be  performed  at  Merrilees 
during  the  following  week  were  carried  out.  Bobby  Conder 


THE  MYSTERY  CLEARING.  353 

also  went  with  them,  and  the  house  was  left  undisturbed 
to  George,  Guy,  and  Calthorp. 

It  proved  no  very  difficult  task  to  get  the  water  out  of 
the  secret  chamber  and  the  approaches  to  it.  The  flood 
door  was  closed  by  means  of  the  mechanism  that  had 
opened  it  and  the  water  pumped  out  by  way  of  the  tunnel 
under  the  lake. 

When  the  work  was  finished  the  three  men  descended 
again  into  the  chamber  by  the  way  which  had  so  nearly 
proved  a  path  of  death  to  them.  It  was  with  very  pale 
faces  that  they  entered  it  again.  Martin  lay  where  the 
rush  of  the  inflowing  water  had  struck  him  down.  There 
were  no  signs  of  suffering  on  his  face,  but  a  look  of  peace 
which  it  had  seldom  borne  during  the  last  months  of  his 
strange  life.  George  passed  the  place  where  he  lay  and 
looked  with  indescribable  feelings  on  the  bodies  of  the 
two  whom  he  now  acknowledged  to  himself  as  his  father 
and  mother. 

The  movements  of  the  water  had  disturbed  their  positions. 
They  now  lay  close  together  near  the  dead  man,  who,  what- 
ever his  faults,  had  given  them  long  and  faithful  service. 
The  youth  and  beauty  of  the  woman  had  been  wonderfully 
preserved  by  the  Italian  embalmers.  But  for  her  faded 
dress  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  think  of  her  as 
having  been  dead  for  five  and  twenty  years.  The  heavily- 
fringed  lids  were  closed  as  if  in  sleep.  The  red  mouth  was 
slightly  open,  showing  the  line  of  ivory  teeth,  and  the 
dusky  hair  which  had  been  unloosened  lay  on  her  soft 
cheeks  and  all  about  her  slender  form.  George  gazed  at 
her  beauty  long.  He  had  given  the  love  of  a  son  to  another, 
and  told  himself  that  he  would  never  regret  it.  The 
memory  of  this  sweet  and  delicate  creature  lived  for  him 
afterwards  in  other  emotions. 

He  looked  for  the  first  time  on  the  face  of  his  fathet 

H.M.  A  A 


354  THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

His  heart  was  sore  that  he  had  never  been  allowed  to 
tender  him  the  obedience  and  reverence  of  a  son.  He 
studied  the  noble  head  and  the  strong,  straight  form,  that 
of  a  king  among  men  in  intellect  and  in  manly  beauty. 
How  willingly  would  he  have  looked  up  to  and  learnt  from 
such  a  man !  Then  he  recalled  the  mastering  love,  the 
overwhelming  loss,  and  the  marred  and  disappointed  life — 
a  life  not  wasted,  but  given  over  to  the  carrying  out  of  a 
great  purpose,  and  yet  a  life  robbed  of  all  that  it  prized 
most.  And  he  recalled  with  yet  deeper  emotion  that,  in  spite 
of  their  estrangement,  he  himself  had  had  some  small  part 
in  his  father's  life.  He  had  not  disgraced  the  name  he  was 
now  to  bear,  and  there  was  evidence  to  show  that  his  youth 
and  early  manhood  had  been  watched,  not  without  approval. 
Among  Sir  Roderick's  papers  he  and  Lord  Caradoc  had 
found  that  printed  pamphlet  of  George's  that  had  won  a 
University  prize.  Its  discovery  had  caused  some  surprise  to 
George,  but  a  sufficient  explanation  seemed  to  have  been 
that  it  was  on  a  subject  in  which  Sir  Roderick  had  been 
interested.  But  it  had  been  kept  apart  from  other  similar 
papers,  and  he  now  hoped  that  it  had  given  his  father 
pleasure  because  it  was  his  work.  Other  indications  rose 
to  his  memory  which  seemed  to  show  that  Sir  Roderick  had 
recognised  his  son  in  his  heart  if  not  before  the  world,  and 
he  was  to  have  clear  proof  that  this  was  so  later.  He  turned 
away  with  a  sigh,  and  went  out  of  the  chamber  and  up 
under  the  sky,  leaving  to  others  the  task  of  moving  the 
three  bodies  from  the  chamber  of  death.  They  laid  them 
side  by  side  in  the  little  chapel  and  buried  them  later  in  the 
quiet  churchyard  at  Morthwaite,  where  they  rest  after  their 
strange  life  amongst  other  Bertrams  of  older  times  and 
some  of  the  dependants  of  that  house  who  had  served  them 
faithfully. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE    MTSTERT   CLEARED. 

CALTHORP'S  conjecture  that  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  had 
intended  to  take  his  own  life  on  a  certain  date  was  never 
verified.  It  need  only  be  said  that  no  other  explanation  of 
details  otherwise  inexplicable  in  his  course  of  action  was 
ever  discovered.  In  other  respects  the  surmises  of  Mrs. 
Herbert  and  Calthorp  were  amply  corroborated.  Papers 
were  found  on  Martin's  body.  They  had  evidently  been 
brought  to  afford  proof  of  what  he  had  intended  to  tell  by 
word  of  mouth.  There  were  the  certificates  of  birth  of  a  son 
born  by  Mrs.  Greenfield  on  February  26th,  18 — ,  and  a  son 
born  to  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  on  March  I4th.  There  was 
also  the  certificate  of  the  death  of  Sir  Roderick  Bertram's 
son  at  Spoleto  on  March  iyth.  These  papers  by  themselves 
seemed  to  show  that  there  was  no  truth  in  the  story  that 
Lady  Bertram's  living  child  had  been  exchanged  for  Mrs. 
Greenfield's  dead  one.  But  other  evidence  of  its  truth  was 
forthcoming,  and  poor  Mrs.  Herbert  had  to  undergo  the 
notoriety  which  came  from  telling  openly  what  she  knew  of 
the  story.  The  grave  at  Spoleto  was  opened,  and  George 
was  finally  proved  to  be  Sir  Roderick  Bertram's  son  and 
heir  to  all  his  property. 

The  news  of  Martin's  death  brought  down  to  Merrilees  his 
former  partner,  Mr.  McDougall,  who  brought  information 
which  cleared  up  the  mystery  surrounding  the  actions  of  the 
man  who,  under  two  names,  has  played  so  large  a  part  in  this 
itory. 

A  A  t 


356  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

Mr.  McDougall  was  a  middle-aged  Scotchman  with  a 
dried-up  appearance  and  manner,  and  a  strong  Glasgow 
accent,  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  produce  in  print, 
even  if  it  were  desirable.  He  told  his  story  in  an 
orderly  unemotional  way,  which  explained  in  some  degree 
the  curious  part  he  himself  had  taken  in  it.  For  Mr. 
McDougall  had  been  the  only  man  in  the  British  Isles  who 
had  known  that  Mr.  Richards,  quietly  pursuing  his  business 
avocations  in  Glasgow,  and  Robert  Martin,  who  was  wanted 
by  the  whole  body  of  police  of  the  United  Kingdom,  were 
one  and  the  same  man,  and  he  had  made  no  movement  to 
betray  his  knowledge. 

"  I've  brought  a  paper,"  he  said,  "  which  I  was  to  put 
into  the  hands  of  Mr.  George  Greenfield,  in  the  event  of 
Robert  Richards's  death  before  his  designs  should  be 
accomplished.  But  first  of  all  I  will  tell  you  what  I  know 
of  him,  so  that  you  may  be  able  to  straighten  things  in  your 
minds. 

"I  first  met  him  when  we  were  both  lads  in  the  service  of  the 
Earl  of  Cumnock,  who  had  an  estate  in  Ayrshire.  His  lord- 
ship is  long  since  dead  and  his  family  dispersed.  I  worked  in 
the  policies  and  Richards  was  footman,  and  went  with  the 
family  to  London  and  elsewhere.  When  they  came  to  Scot- 
land in  the  autumn  of  every  year  we  foregathered.  We  were 
both  above  our  places,  if  I  may  say  so.  I  had  a  strong  hanker- 
ing after  commerce,  and  you  may  say  I  was  made  for  it,  for 
I've  now  been  many  years  in  business,  and  I'm  a  warm  man. 
Richards  had  the  same  wish  and  the  same  manner  of 
capability,  which  was  odd  in  two  lads  placed  as  we  were  and 
enough  to  bring  us  together.  We  would  meet  and  talk 
over  our  plans  and  ambitions  and  we  swore  a  compact,  as 
lads  will,  to  help  each  other  in  whatever  we  might  under- 
take in  the  future  and  to  keep  one  another's  secrets,  and  so 
forth.  And  we  were  saving  our  money  and  meant  to  get 


THE  MYSTERY  CLEARED.  357 

out  of  service  as  soon  as  we  could  and  start  in  business, 
together  it  might  be,  or,  if  not,  one  would  always  give  the 
other  a  helping  hand.  It  seems  foolishness  now  in  an 
under-footman  and  an  under-gardener,  but  we  were  very 
much  in  earnest  then,  and  you'll  see  how  it  turned  out. 

"  Richards's  plans  were  like  to  be  rudely  upset,  for  there 
was  trouble  in  his  lordship's  house,  and  he  was  wrongfully 
blamed  for  it.  There  was  a  theft  of  jewels,  and  it  looked 
so  that  Richards  was  the  thief.  I  needn't  go  into  details, 
but  things  were  very  black  against  him,  by  coincidence,  and 
I  make  no  doubt  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Sir  Roderick 
Bertram  who  was  staying  in  the  house  as  a  guest,  he  would 
have  been  tried  and  sent  to  prison  as  a  thief  and  his 
character  blasted  for  life.  Richards  had  waited  on  Sir 
Roderick  Bertram,  who  was  a  young  bachelor  then,  and 
loaded  for  him  and  all  that.  He  had  told  me  about  him 
and  of  how  he  was  not  like  other  young  gentlemen,  but 
friendly  though  autocratic,  and  a  man  to  serve  with  pride 
and  pleasure.  So  when  this  trouble  came,  Richards  plucked 
up  courage  and  appealed  to  Sir  Roderick  to  see  him  righted 
and  he  did  so,  and  found  out  the  truth  of  the  story,  and 
when  Richards  was  righted  he  took  him  into  his  own 
service.  And  it  was  then  that  Richards  chose  to  be  called 
by  his  second  name,  Martin,  because  of  what  had  happened, 
and  to  make  a  fresh  start. 

"  Soon  after  that  I  saw  my  way  to  starting  in  business  in  a 
small  way,  and  I  asked  Richards  to  join  me  according  to 
compact.  But  he  said  he  was  bound  to  his  master's 
service,  and  wouldn't  leave  him  this  side  of  the  grave.  He 
was  a  man  of  strong  character,  and  where  he'd  placed  his 
duty  and  affections,  there  they'd  stay.  'That's  good-bye  to 
your  business  career,  then,'  I  said,  and  he  said,  *Yes,  I'm 
likely  to  end  as  I  began,  a  gentleman's  servant* 

"  Then  I  lost  sight  of  him  for  some  years,  and  mean/ime 


358  THE   HOUSE   OF   MERRILEES. 

I  prospered.  Well,  some  fifteen  years  ago  I  was  surprised 
at  him  calling  for  me  in  my  place  of  business  in  Glasgow, 
and  for  two  men  without  the  capacity  for  making  many 
friends  and  not  overburdened  with  sentiment,  we  came 
together  in  a  surprising  way.  He  told  me  that  he  had 
married  and  had  a  daughter,  but  his  wife  was  dead.  I  have 
never  married,  which  may  account  for  my  being  able  to 
keep  the  secrets  which  were  afterwards  disclosed  to  me 
without  anybody  guessing  that  I  had  any.  Richards  told 
me  then  that  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  had  put  a  great  deal  of 
responsibility  into  his  hands,  and  that  he  was  more  of  a 
steward  than  a  valet.  And  he  told  me  that  his  master  was 
treating  him  with  a  great  generosity  and  was  giving  him 
commissions  on  purchases  he  was  making  for  him  just  as  if 
he  was  not  in  his  regular  employ.  We  talked  over  many 
things  in  detail  and  at  last  we  came  to  Sfa  arrangement  by 
which  Martin  should  invest  his  money  in  my  business,  and 
if  ever  in  the  future  he  should  leave  Sir  Roderick's  service 
we  should  go  into  partnership  and  work  together.  And  so 
it  went  on  for  many  years,  and  occasionally  Richards 
would  come  to  see  me  in  Glasgow,  but  as  you  may  imagine 
under  the  circumstances,  this  is  the  first  time  I've  been  to 
Merrilees. 

"  Last  June  Richards  came  to  me.  He  was  much  cast 
down  by  Sir  Roderick  Bertram's  sudden  death.  Sir  Roderick 
had  died  only  two  days  before  and  the  world  at  that 
time  had  heard  nothing  of  it.  He  said  he  was  ready  to 
take  up  the  partnership  that  we  had  arranged  for,  but  he 
warned  me  that  there  might  be  trouble  coming  for  him.  '  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  can,'  he  said,  '  and  you  can  take 
your  choice  of  having  me  with  you  and  keeping  your 
mouth  closed  about  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  or  letting 
me  go  away  1  *  '  Let  me  hear  first,'  I  said,  '  what  you  have 
got  to  tell  me.  It  won't  go  any  further,  whatever  happens.' 


THE  MYSTERY  CLEARED.  359 

And  you  may  imagine  I  was  somewhat  exercised  by  his 
story. 

"He  told  me  about  his  laying  Sir  Roderick's  body, 
according  to  his  master's  instructions,  in  a  secret  place. 
He  told  me  about  the  jewels,  and  that  he  had  put  them  for 
the  present  in  the  same  hiding  place.  He  said  that  he 
knew  what  Sir  Roderick's  wishes  with  regard  to  his 
property  were,  and  had  been  entrusted  with  the  duty  oi 
carrying  them  out  after  his  death,  but  that  there  was  a  secret 
which  he  had  sworn  not  to  divulge  until  after  a  certain 
date — namely,  the  fourteenth  of  March  in  the  following 
year,  and  that  sooner  than  break  his  oath  he  would  let 
matters  take  their  course  until  that  date,  when  he  would 
disclose  everything. 

M '  But,  my  good  man,'  I  said,  '  You  don't  see  that  you'll 
be  accused  of  stealing  the  jewels,  to  say  nothing  of  your 
master's  body.  There'll  be  a  terrible  outcry,'  I  said,  '  when 
once  the  news  is  known,  and  you'll  be  taken,  and  made  to 
tell  what  you  know.' 

" '  I'll  never  do  that,'  he  said, '  till  the  time  comes,  and  I've 
thought  of  everything.  I'm  little  known,'  he  said  ;  '  I've 
never  been  photographed  in  my  life,  and  I've  shaved  off  my 
beard  as  you  see.  If  you  let  me  come  quietly  to  this  office 
to-morrow  morning  and  begin  work  here,  by  the  time  the 
news  is  out  nobody  here  will  think  of  connecting  me  with 
Martin.  It's  a  risk,  but  I'm  ready  to  take  it  if  you  are,  and 
I  think  it's  less  of  a  risk  than  you  might  imagine.' 

" '  And  what  will  you  do  ? '  I  said,  '  if  the  police  do  find 
you? ' 

" '  I'll  put  up  with  whatever  I'm  obliged  to,'  he  said,  '  till 
next  March,  and  then  I'll  tell  my  story.' 

" '  Why  not  tell  it  now  ? '  I  said, '  and  get  it  off  your  mind.' 

" '  I  can't  do  that,'  he  said,  '  I  swore  to  do  a  certain  thing 
and  I'll  keep  my  oath  whatever  it  costs  me.' 


360  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

"  Well,  to  cut  a  long  story  short,  gentlemen,  Richards 
settled  down  in  Glasgow,  and  went  about  his  business,  and 
was  never  once  suspected,  even  when  the  excitement  was  at 
its  highest.  He  told  me  that  he  had  once  been  recognised 
in  London,  but  he  went  there  as  seldom  as  possible,  and, 
as  you  know,  he  was  never  caught. 

"  Well,  the  day  before  the  poor  fellow's  death,  he  reminded 
me  that  the  time  had  come  to  end  all  the  mystery.  He  was 
downcast,  and  not  relieved,  as  I  should  have  been,  at  the 
prospect  of  getting  it  off  his  mind.  I  think  now  that  he 
had  some  presentiment  of  his  end.  At  any  rate,  he  acted 
as  if  we  should  never  meet  again.  That  is,  he  put  his  will 
and  other  private  papers  connected  with  his  property  into 
my  hands  and  told  me  how  to  act  in  the  event  of  his  death. 
He  said  he  should  be  back  again  in  two  days'  time,  but  had 
made  everything  straight  in  case  of  accidents.  What 
accidents  he  did  not  say,  and  of  course  he  could  not  have 
known  the  terrible  end  that  was  to  overtake  him.  He  also 
gave  me  this  envelope  addressed  to  George  Greenfield,  Esq. 
He  said  I  should  find  you  in  this  house,  sir,  and  was  to  give 
it  to  you  in  the  event  of  anything  happening  to  him.  He 
said  good-bye  to  me  without  emotion,  but  I  think  he  never 
expected  to  see  me  again.  Things  work  out  strangely  in 
this  life,  and  there's  more  in  it  than  meets  the  eye." 

With  this  somewhat  trite  observation,  Mr.  McDougall 
closed  his  long  speech  and  put  the  envelope  which  he  had 
been  holding  into  George's  hands.  He  betrayed  no  curiosity 
as  to  its  contents ;  indeed,  curiosity  did  not  appear  to  be 
strongly  developed  in  Mr.  McDougall's  character,  and  Mr. 
Richards  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  better  confidant  to 
whom  to  confide  such  of  his  secrets  as  he  could  not  keep  to 
himself.  He  left  Memlees  shortly  afterwards,  saying  that  it 
was  a  busy  time  with  him  in  Glasgow,  but  before  he  went  he 
made  another  statement  which  may  as  well  be  recorded  here. 


THE  MYSTERY  CLEARED.  361 

Richards  had  executed  a  will,  of  which  Mr.  McDougall  was 
sole  executor,  in  which  he  had  left  everything  he  possessed  to 
Peggy.  Part  of  his  money  was  invested  and  part  had 
purchased  his  share  in  the  business,  a  certain  percentage  of 
the  profits  of  which  were  to  be  paid  to  his  daughter.  When 
her  affairs  were  settled  up  by  Mr.  McDougall  she  was  found 
to  possess  an  income  of  between  six  and  seven  hundred  a 
year. 

The  document  which  Mr.  McDougall  put  into  George's 
hands  cleared  up  the  whole  mystery  of  Sir  Roderick's  life 
and  what  had  taken  place  after  his  death.  In  part  it 
recounted  what  was  already  known  or  guessed  at,  but  it  is 
here  given  in  full.  It  bore  a  date  of  a  few  days  previously, 
and  began  without  any  further  preamble  : — 

"  This  is  directed  to  you  under  the  name  which  you  have 
always  borne,  of  George  Greenfield,  but  you  are  really 
Sir  George  Bertram,  the  only  son  of  Sir  Roderick  Bertram, 
my  late  master.  It  will  be  put  into  your  hands  only  in  the 
event  of  my  death  before  your  birthday  on  March  I4th,  and 
not  until  then.  I  fully  expect  to  be  alive  then  to  tell  you 
by  word  of  mouth  what  I  now  write,  but  in  case  of  my 
death  I  put  down  on  paper  for  you  what  you  must  then 
know,  and  I  tell  you  a  large  part  of  the  story  of  my  own 
life,  to  clear  my  own  memory  of  blame  which  you  have  at 
various  times  imputed  to  me. 

"  I  entered  the  service  of  Sir  Roderick  Bertram  over 
thirty  years  ago.  I  was  bound  to  him  by  exceptional  ties 
of  gratitude  and  respect,  and  these  feelings  have  only  grown 
stronger  with  years.  You  have  known  me  as  a  man  with 
very  little  natural  affection,  and  I  do  not  claim  that  you 
have  misjudged  my  character  in  that  respect ;  but  my 
devotion  to  Sir  Roderick  Bertram, ever  since  the  time  when  he 
saved  me  from  a  serious  but  undeserved  trouble  and  first  took 
me  into  his  service  and  gave  me  his  confidence,  has  nerer 


362  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

wavered.  It  has  been  the  strongest  influence  in  my  life. 
Perhaps  it  has  absorbed  all  the  feeling  which  other  men 
devote  to  many  objects,  and  it  has  guided  me  in  everything 
I  have  done  for  the  last  thirty  years.  If  you  will  bear  this  in 
mind  you  will  understand  some  things  in  my  behaviour 
towards  yourself  which  have  caused  you  anger  in  the 
past,  and  I  do  not  deny  that  you  have  had  reason  to  be 
dissatisfied. 

"  I  pass  over  the  first  five  years  of  my  service  with  Sir 
Roderick,  during  which  I  devoted  all  my  energies  to  his 
welfare  and  his  interests  and  gradually  gained  his 
complete  confidence,  so  that  while  I  always  lived  at 
Merrilees  with  the  upper  domestics  and  was  to  appearance 
his  private  servant,  I  became  actually  his  secretary 
and  afterwards  his  man  of  business.  During  his  short 
married  life  I  learnt  to  extend  that  regard  which  I  felt  for 
him  towards  his  lady.  There  was  never  such  happiness  in 
wedded  life  as  Sir  Roderick  and  Lady  Bertram  enjoyed 
during  the  year  between  their  marriage  and  her  death. 
All  their  lives  were  wrapped  up  in  one  another.  When 
Lady  Bertram  died,  only  one  who  knew  him  through 
and  through  as  I  did  could  have  told  what  a  crushing 
blow  it  was  to  Sir  Roderick.  He  made  no  expres- 
sions of  grief,  and  outwardly  he  was  almost  unmoved; 
but,  although  his  great  powers  of  mind  were  untouched 
by  what  had  happened,  the  change  that  came  over 
him  was  all  the  more  striking  for  that  reason.  The 
c  nly  harsh  word  I  have  ever  received  from  him  was  at  that 
time,  when  I  ventured  to  say  something  to  him  of  my 
sorrow  on  his  behalf.  He  looked  at  me  fiercely  and  said» 
'  Remember  your  place,  and  don't  presume  on  it.'  But 
then  and  always  he  was  too  great  a  man  to  be  unjust, 
though  you,  perhaps,  may  not  think  so,  and  he  added, 
'  You  can  show  your  loyalty  by  following  my  instruction! 


THE   MYSTERY    CLEARED.  363 

implicitly.'  'That  I  will  do  as  I  have  always  done,  sir,'  I 
answered,  and  he  said,  '  I  shall  put  you  to  the  test.' 

"  I  tell  you  these  things  so  as  to  help  you  to  understand 
Sir  Roderick's  actions,  and  also  my  actions  in  carrying  out 
his  instructions.  A  smaller  man  than  he  was,  if  he  were 
capable  of  the  depth  of  love  that  Sir  Roderick  bore 
towards  his  wife,  would  have  shown  more  grief,  but  he  would 
have  got  over  it.  Or  it  would  have  crushed  him  altogether. 
Sir  Roderick  never  got  over  his  loss  till  the  day  of  his  death. 
And  it  did  not  crush  him  altogether,  as  the  naturalness  of  his 
after  life  within  the  limits  he  chose  for  it  showed.  Perhaps 
one  part  of  his  brain  gave  way  and  caused  him  to  undertake 
the  work  which  he  spent  the  last  twenty-four  years  of  his 
life  over  in  solitude,  instead  of  living  in  the  world  as  he  had 
done  before.  Of  course  he  never  talked  to  me  of  these  things, 
but  I  have  thought  over  them  very  often  and  that  is  my  view 
of  the  matter.  And  there  is  another  point  which  seems  to 
go  with  this  view,  and  that  is  his  conviction  that  his  life 
would  end  on  the  day  twenty-five  years  after  his  lady's 
death.  He  was  accustomed  to  talk  of  that  to  me  as  if  it 
was  a  fixed  and  natural  thing,  and,  as  you  will  see,  all  his 
arrangements  were  made  to  fit  in  with  it.  I  know  what 
will  be  said  as  to  this,  and  I  have  no  further  explanation 
to  offer  one  way  or  the  other.  I  will  close  this  part  of  my 
subject  by  saying  that  the  motive  which  swayed  Sir 
Roderick's  life  was  the  never-dying  devotion  to  the 
memory  of  his  wife,  and  the  motive  that  has  directed 
all  my  actions  has  been  unquestioning  obedience  to  his 
will. 

"  In  the  year  18 —  Sir  Roderick  and  Lad)  Bertram  were 
travelling  in  Italy.  We  had  two  travelling  carriages, 
and  went  from  one  place  to  another  in  the  old-fashioned 
way.  There  was  a  courier  in  attendance  as  well  as  myself 
and  her  ladyship's  maid,  who  was  an  Italian  woman. 


364  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

On  March  I2th,  18 —  we  were  at  Assisi.  Lady  Bertram 
was  expecting  her  confinement  in  a  few  weeks.  Mrs. 
Greenfield  was  staying  in  the  same  hotel  and  had  given 
birth  to  a  child  some  little  time  before.  She  had  been 
forsaken  by  her  husband  and  was  destitute.  My  lady 
heard  of  her  story  and  took  pity  on  her,  and  asked  Sir 
Roderick  to  take  her  to  England  with  us.  We  left  Assisi 
together  and  our  next  stopping  place  was  Foligno.  There 
Lady  Bertram  was  unexpectedly  confined  on  March  ?4th, 
and  in  the  evening  she  died. 

"  I  will  say  nothing  further  of  Sir  Roderick's  grief,  but 
will  record  what  happened  briefly.  Lady  Bertram's  body 
was  embalmed,  and  we  continued  our  journey  the  following 
day.  The  courier  was  sent  to  Civita  Vecchia  to  engage  a 
yacht  to  be  ready  for  us  when  we  reached  the  coast.  Sir 
Roderick  told  me  shortly  that  he  was  going  to  take  the 
body  home  to  Merrilees  and  that  it  was  not  to  be  known. 
The  Italian  maid  had  been  sent  away,  and  Mrs.  Greenfield 
readily  promised  secrecy.  Her  own  child  was  then  very 
ill,  and  at  Spoleto,  our  next  stopping  place,  it  died. 

"At  Spoleto  Sir  Roderick  summoned  me  and  said,  '  Are 
you  prepared  to  follow  implicitly  any  instructions  I  may 
give  you  ? '  I  said  '  Yes '  at  once,  and  he  asked  for  no 
further  assurances.  He  told  me  in  a  quiet  matter-of-fact 
way  that  he  would  never  see  the  child  nor  recognise  it  as 
his  son.  He  told  me  to  make  a  proposal  to  Mrs. 
Greenfield.  I  was  first  of  all  to  say  that  she  would  be 
amply  provided  for.  This  was,  no  doubt,  because  Lady 
Bertram  had  befriended  her.  I  was  then  to  ask  her  to  take 
the  child  and  bring  it  up  as  her  own.  She  was  never  to 
disclose  the  facts  of  its  birth  to  anyone.  It  was  like  Sir 
Roderick  not  to  make  his  offer  of  a  provision  for  her 
dependent  upon  her  consent,  but  it  probably  went  a  long 
way  towards  persuading  her.  Her  own  child  was  dead, 


THE   MYSTERY  CLEARED.  365 

and  she  clung  very  closely  to  you.  She  had  nursed  you 
from  the  hour  of  your  birth.  When  I  had  won  her  consent 
she  saw  Sir  Roderick  and  made  a  solemn  oath  of  secrecy 
as  he  desired.  She  was  sent  home  to  England,  and  settled 
in  Highgate,  as  you  know.  Her  own  child  was  buried  at 
Spoleto  on  March  lyth  and  a  stone  put  up  as  if  it  was 
Sir  Roderick's  son. 

"As  we  were  on  our  way  home  in  the  yacht  we  had 
chartered  for  the  purpose,  Sir  Roderick  told  me  of  his  inten- 
tions with  regard  to  Lady  Bertram's  body.  He  said  that 
when  Sir  Michael  Bertram  had  rebuilt  the  old  house  of 
Merrilees,  he  had  gone  to  great  expense  in  constructing  a 
secret  chamber  within  the  walls  of  the  park.  I  may  tell 
you  this  much,  but  am  not  at  liberty  to  say  more,  and  the 
secret  is  so  well  guarded  that  it  is  unlikely  that  it  will  ever 
be  discovered.  It  had  been  handed  down  by  word  of  mouth 
from  father  to  son,  and  no  one  but  Sir  Roderick  knew  of  the 
existence  of  the  chamber.  He  told  me  that  the  story  of  this 
chamber  and  the  use  to  which  Sir  Michael,  his  ancestor,  had 
put  it  was  a  very  curious  and  interesting  one,  and  that  he 
had  written  a  book  about  it  which  he  should  now  destroy. 
I  do  not  know  whether  he  ever  did  so,  or  whether  his  book 
is  still  in  existence.  I  never  saw  it,  and  he  told  me  nothing 
of  the  story  itself  but  only  that  the  chamber  was  there,  and 
how  it  was  to  be  reached. 

"  Here  Lady  Bertram's  body  was  to  be  laid,  and  when  Sir 
Roderick  himself  should  come  to  die  his  body  was  to  be 
laid  beside  hers,  and  all  traces  of  the  chamber  itself 
destroyed.  Afterwards  I  was  given  fuller  instructions  on 
these  points.  But  we  landed  safely  and  secretly  on  a  little 
inhabited  part  of  the  coast,  and  Lady  Bertram's  body  was 
laid  to  rest  in  the  appointed  place. 

"  That  was  the  only  time  I  visited  the  chamber  until  Sir 
Roderick's  own  death,  but  every  night  of  his  life  during 


366  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

those  twenty-four  years  he  went  there  himself  and  kept  his 
grief  and  his  memory  alive. 

"We  very  soon  dropped  into  ordinary  ways  of  life  at 
Merrilees.  Sir  Roderick  spent  his  days  like  any  other 
gentleman,  except  that  he  saw  no  one  but  the  servants  in 
his  house.  Day  after  day  and  year  after  year  he  worked  at 
the  great  book  which  you  know  of.  His  recreations  were 
the  garden  and  the  collection  of  pictures,  furniture  and 
other  things  of  which  you  know  also,  but  this  did  not  begin 
until  a  year  or  two  later.  I  need  not  go  further  into  these 
things.  I  acted  for  him  throughout  and  was  in  many  ways 
deep  in  his  confidence.  But  in  others  he  would  simply  give 
me  his  instructions  without  any  explanation,  and  I  was  not 
on  such  terms  with  him  as  allowed  me  to  ask  him  any 
questions. 

*'  I  must  mention  one  occurrence  which  seemed  unimpor- 
tant at  the  time,  but  has  had  an  important  effect  upon  what 
has  since  occurred.  Sir  Roderick  had  given  me  definite 
instructions  to  buy  a  certain  picture  which  was  to  be  sold 
by  auction.  This  was  some  years  after  Lady  Bertram's 
death,  and  I  had  done  my  best  to  fit  myself  to  be  of  use  to 
him  in  these  matters,  and  had  got  to  consider  myself  some- 
thing of  an  expert.  When  I  saw  this  picture,  I  judged  it  to 
be  a  forgery,  and  I  made  no  offer  for  it.  It  was  bought  by 
a  dealer  for  a  large  sum.  When  I  told  Sir  Roderick  of  this 
on  my  return  from  London  he  said,  '  Is  that  how  you  keep 
your  promise  of  obedience  to  my  directions  ?  Go  back  and 
buy  the  picture  from  the  dealer.'  I  was  nearer  to  feeling 
anger  against  Sir  Roderick  then  than  I  have  ever  been, 
but  I  did  what  I  was  told.  I  had  to  give  the  dealer  a 
thousand  pounds  more  than  he  had  paid  for  it.  When  we 
had  completed  the  bargain  I  said,  '  My  own  opinion  is 
that  the  picture  is  a  forgery,  but  I  have  been  told  to  buy 
it,'  The  dealer  replied,  '  I'm  quite  sure  it  is,  but  I  have 


THE   MYSTERY  CLEARED.  367 

been  offered  a  profit  for  it  from  America.'  So  I  went  back 
hoping  that  Sir  Roderick  would  do  justice  to  my  know- 
ledge. Directly  he  saw  it,  he  said,  '  You  may  put  it  away. 
I  don't  want  to  see  it  again.'  I  looked  to  him  to  make 
some  acknowledgment  that  I  had  been  right,  but  he  went 
on,  'You  have  got  to  know  about  these  things,  Martin, 
and  when  you  told  me  your  opinion  I  believed  it  to  be  a 
right  one.  I  trust  your  knowledge  of  these  things  after 
my  own.  But  in  this  case  I  gave  you  no  directions  to 
exercise  your  judgment.  I  told  you  to  buy  the  picture.  It 
is  worth,  perhaps,  five  pounds,  and  I  have  paid  five  thousand 
for  it.  But  I  would  have  paid  a  hundred  thousand,  or 
more,  to  have  the  assurance  that  I  could  trust  you  to  carry 
out  my  instructions  to  the  letter  without  questioning  them.' 
Then  I  saw  it  all,  and  I  said  at  once,  '  I  give  you  my  solemn 
promise,  sir,  to  carry  out  all  your  instructions  to  the  letter 
for  the  future.'  '  Then  this  five  thousand  pounds  which  the 
world  would  call  thrown  away,'  he  said,  *  will  be  the  best 
investment  I  ever  made.' 

"  I  ask  you  to  bear  this  story  in  mind  when  I  come  to 
my  actions  after  Sir  Roderick's  death. 

"  I  now  come  to  matters  which  will  be  in  your  own 
remembrance.  When  the  arrangement  with  Mrs.  Greenfield 
was  come  to  it  was  settled  that  she  should  have  £500  a 
year  for  her  life.  This  I  paid  her  regularly,  at  first  in  gold, 
and  afterwards,  when  I  made  business  connections  in 
Glasgow,  by  cheque  upon  my  bank  there  under  my  own 
name  of  Richards.  This  was  done  so  that  the  chances  of 
your  discovering  when  you  grew  up  my  identity  with 
Martin,  Sir  Roderick's  servant,  should  be  done  away  with 
as  far  as  possible.  The  arrangements  were  my  own.  Sir 
Roderick  only  told  me  to  conceal  all  clues.  There  were 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  purchasing  an  annuity,  and  I  paid 
the  money  every  quarter. 


368  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

"  For  seven  years  your  name  was  never  mentioned  by 
Sir  Roderick.  In  the  meantime  I  married  the  daughter  of 
a  farmer  at  Morthwaite.  She  was  the  last  member  of  a 
good  old  yeoman  stock,  and  my  girl  has  no  reason  to  be 
ashamed  of  her  parentage  on  her  mother's  side.  We  lived 
in  one  of  the  cottages  on  the  island,  and  when  my  wife 
died  I  went  back  to  the  house.  Sir  Roderick  had  previously 
bought  the  two  hundred  acres  which  were  my  father-in- 
law's.  Upon  the  death  of  my  wife  he  asked  me  what  I 
intended  to  do  with  my  child.  I  told  him  that  a  lady  had 
promised  to  give  her  a  home,  and  when  he  asked  me  that 
lady's  name,  and  where  she  lived,  I  told  him.  He  looked 
at  me  in  his  searching  way,  and  I  saw  instantly  what  was 
in  his  mind.  I  had  had  no  idea  in  making  the  arrange- 
ment but  that  Mrs.  Greenfield  was  the  best  woman  I  knew, 
and  the  one  whom  I  could  best  trust  to  bring  up  my  child. 
But  my  motives  might  have  borne  a  very  different  interpreta- 
tion, and  it  was  a  proof  of  the  confidence  that  Sir  Roderick 
now  placed  in  me  that  beyond  that  one  penetrating  look 
he  made  no  comment  on  my  decision.  What  he  did  say 
caused  me  more  surprise  than  anything  else  could  have 
done.  He  said,  'Bring  me  news  of  the  child,'  and  then 
turned  away. 

"  You  had  just  gone  to  school  and  were  doing  well,  and 
I  told  him  what  I  could.  After  this,  whenever  I  visited 
Highgate  it  was  an  understood  thing  that  I  was  to  report 
your  progress  to  Sir  Roderick.  He  never  made  any  remarks 
on  what  I  told  him,  but  occasionally  asked  me  questions. 
But  nothing  he  ever  said  caused  me  to  believe  that  he  had 
changed  his  mind  about  you,  and  I  am  sure  that  at  this 
time  he  had  not  done  so.  Even  when  you  were  ready  to 
leave  school  and  Sir  Roderick  told  me  that  he  should  put 
aside  a  thousand  pounds  for  your  further  education  and  start 
in  life  he  told  me  expressly  that  his  object  was  to  help  you 


THE  MYSTERY  CLEARED.  369 

to  make  a  living  in  the  class  of  life  you  would  belong  to  as 
Mrs.  Greenfield's  son.  He  said  that  if  you  showed  a  desire 
for  a  University  career  it  would  be  better  that  you  should  go 
to  one  of  the  smaller  colleges  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge. 
When  I  learnt  that  you  intended  to  go  to  Trinity  College 
at  Cambridge,  which  was  where  I  knew  Sir  Roderick  had 
been  himself,  you  will  remember  that  I  tried  to  stop  you. 
But  when  I  told  Sir  Roderick  he  said  that  if  you  won  a 
scholarship  it  would  not  interfere  with  his  aim  in  providing 
the  money.  When  you  did  so  I  am  sure  he  was  pleased,  and 
from  that  time  I  know  he  paid  attention  to  what  he  heard 
of  you  from  time  to  time. 

"  I  do  not  know  when  he  first  altered  his  intention  of 
never  recognising  you  as  his  son.  I  know  he  got  more  and 
more  interested  in  what  he  read  of  your  doings  at  Cambridge, 
and  I  know  he  once  saw  your  photograph  in  one  of  the 
illustrated  papers  with  other  members  of  a  cricket  eleven. 
It  was  after  you  had  been  made  a  Fellow  of  Trinity 
College  that  he  made  known  his  intention  to  me.  He 
kept  to  his  first  decision  of  never  seeing  you,  but  he  then 
told  me  that  you  were  to  succeed  him  and  inherit  his 
property.  He  told  me  that  I  was  to  make  your  birth  known 
to  you  on  the  i4th  of  March  this  year,  assuming  as  he 
always  did  that  he  himself  should  then  be  dead.  I  gave 
the  required  promise.  I  am  quite  sure  that  if  he  had  had 
the  slightest  idea  that  he  would  die  before  that  date  he 
would  have  authorised  me  to  reveal  everything  immediately 
after  his  death.  I  will  go  even  further  than  that  and  say 
that  when  he  said  '  the  i4th  of  March  '  he  meant  '  the 
day  of  my  death.'  But  since  the  occasion  I  have  men- 
tioned it  has  been  my  pride  to  do  as  I  then  promised  and 
carry  out  his  instructions  to  the  letter  without  taking  any 
responsibility  for  interpreting  them  on  myself.  And  I  am 
proud  now  of  having  done  so  in  this  instance  at  very  great 

H.M.  » » 


370  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

risk  to  myself.  When  I  meet  my  master  again,  as  I  hope 
to.  I  shall  be  able  to  give  him  this  instance  of  my  obedience, 
And  1  believe  that  even  you,  who  have  suffered  by  it,  will 
not  blame  me  now  for  having  kept  my  solemnly  made 
promise. 

"  I  think  I  owe  you  some  explanation  of  my  attitude  to- 
wards yourself  through  the  years  of  your  youth  and  after- 
wards, and  perhaps  some  sort  of  apology  for  it.  It  may 
seem  strange  that,  holding  the  feelings  of  devotion  and 
reverence  to  Sir  Roderick  that  I  did,  and  being  proud  to 
obey  him  as  a  servant,  I  did  not  show  more  respect  to  you, 
his  son.  It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  enter  into  these  matters, 
but  as  this  paper  will  only  come  into  your  hands,  if  it  ever 
does  so,  after  my  death,  I  feel  that  I  should  like  as  far  as 
possible  to  justify  my  actions  to  you. 

"  You  were  to  be  brought  up  as  Mrs.  Greenfield's  son, 
and  for  some  years  it  was  as  Mrs.  Greenfield's  son  that  I 
regarded  you.  And  when  the  fact  of  your  true  birth  struck 
me,  as  it  could  not  help  doing  sometimes — for  you  grew  to 
be  very  like  Sir  Roderick — I  remembered  it  with  resentment. 
Sir  Roderick  had  disowned  you  because  your  birth  had  cost 
the  life  of  his  wife,  and  I  disliked  you  for  the  same  reason, 
because  it  had  destroyed  my  master's  happiness.  When  he 
began  to  take  an  interest  in  you  I  disliked  you  still  more. 
If  you  were  to  put  this  down  to  a  feeling  of  jealousy  I 
could  not  contradict  you  ;  but  you  must  remember  my 
devotion  to  Sir  Roderick,  and  excuse  it.  And  there  was 
another  reason.  When  you  began  to  worry  me  with 
questions  about  the  past  I  received  them  with  impatience 
and  a  strong  feeling  of  anger.  I  had  acted  so  successfully 
in  hiding  all  traces  of  your  true  parentage,  and  the  secret 
had  been  so  well  kept,  partly  by  my  management,  partly  by 
good  fortune,  and  it  had  come  to  be  so  easy  to  keep,  as  I 
thought,  that  I  deeply  resented  your  attempts  to  get  at  the 


THE   MYSTERY   CLEARED.  371 

truth.  And  your  attitude  towards  me  was  so  like  what 
your  father's  would  have  been  in  a  like  case,  fearless  and 
independent,  and  that  added  to  my  resentment.  At  various 
times  when  you  pressed  me  for  an  explanation  I  could  only 
take  refuge  in  obstinate  denials,  and  get  out  of  the  difficulty 
as  well  as  I  could.  You  may  remember  one  occasion  upon 
which  you  threatened  to  come  up  to  Glasgow  and  trace  my 
antecedents.  This  was  while  Sir  Roderick  was  still  alive, 
and,  although  I  had  taken  the  precaution  to  provide  myself 
with  an  address  in  Glasgow,  if  you  had  done  as  you 
threatened  you  might  have  discovered  everything.  Once 
or  twice  you  drove  me  into  a  comer,  but  that  was  the 
closest  escape. 

"  I  ought  to  say  something  about  Mrs.  Greenfield.  On 
thinking  over  the  past  you  may  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
she  displayed  an  unreasonable  fear  of  your  discovering  the 
secret.  She  was  of  course  bound  by  her  oath  to  Sir 
Roderick,  and  was  too  conscientious  to  break  it.  But  a  far 
more  powerful  motive  in  her  case  was  her  intense  dread  of 
your  discovering  that  you  were  not  actually  her  son.  Until 
Sir  Roderick  made  up  his  mind  to  restore  you  to  your  rights 
after  his  death  this  feeling  of  hers  greatly  helped  towards 
the  preservation  of  secrecy,  but  when  I  announced  his 
intention  to  her  things  became  very  difficult.  She  could 
not  bear  the  idea  of  the  disclosures  that  were  to  come,  and 
I  believe  that  the  dread  of  them  had  as  much  to  do  with  the 
illness  which  led  to  her  death,  as  the  persecution  she  was 
unfortunately  submitted  to  at  the  hands  of  her  rascally  hus- 
band. I  was  very  sorry  for  this,  as  I  have  always  felt  a 
deep  regard  for  Mrs.  Greenfield  since  the  time  I  told  you  of 
a  few  years  ago,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  She  never  liked 
me  from  the  first.  I  knew  that,  and  she  had  almost  a 
horror  of  Sir  Roderick  and  of  everything  connected  with 
Merrilees.  She  never  hid  her  opinion  that  Sir  Roderick 

•  •  a 


was  out  of  his  mind,  and  that  I  was  wrong  in  carrying  out 
his  wishes.  But  she  was  bound  by  her  oath  and  by  her 
strong  attachment  to  you. 

"I  now  come  to  the  date  of  Sir  Roderick's  death, 
need  not  go  into  great  detail  concerning  my  actions,  as  you 
will  understand  them  if  you  have  read  what  I  have  written 
carefully.  When  he  was  taken  ill  I  was  in  London.  I 
returned  before  his  death,  but  he  was  unconscious,  and 
afterwards  I  could  only  carry  out  as  faithfully  as  possible 
his  instructions  and  what  I  knew  to  be  his  wishes.  With 
regard  to  the  disposal  of  his  body  I  knew  what  to  do.  It 
was  to  be  laid  beside  that  of  his  lady  in  the  secret  chamber, 
and  their  burial-place  then  concealed  for  ever.  He  allowed 
me  one  assistant,  a  gardener,  Braithwaite,  whom  I  knew  I 
could  trust.  We  laid  his  body  in  the  place  appointed,  and 
I  paid  Braithwaite  the  money  that  had  been  promised  to 
him  and  sent  him  out  of  the  country.  I  have  now  sent  for 
him  again,  and  on  March  i4th  we  shall  by  destroying  the 
chamber  complete  that  part  of  the  charge.  The  burial- 
place  of  your  father  and  mother  is  the  only  thing  which  I 
cannot  disclose  to  you,  and  my  disposal  of  my  master's 
body  in  secrecy  is  the  only  thing  that  may  bring  me  trouble 
when  I  make  known  the  other  facts.  But,  whatever  happens 
I  shall  never  disclose  it. 

"  So  far  my  duty  was  clear,  and  if  I  could  then  have 
made  known  the  secret  of  your  birth  to  you  and  handed 
over  the  property  which  was  to  come  to  you  all  would  have 
been  well.  But  I  would  not  do  that  before  the  appointed 
time,  and  it  was  made  possible  for  me  to  prevent  the 
greater  part  of  your  inheritance  falling  inf  o  other  hands  in 
the  meantime  by  its  being  in  the  form  of  precious  stones. 
I  have  read  the  explanation  that  Sir  Roderick  is  said  to 
have  given  the  manager  of  the  bank  at  Keswick  for  his 
decision  to  turn  his  great  fortune  into  jewels.  It  is  the  true 


THE   MYSTERY  CLEARED.  373 

one.  He  never  made  any  secret  of  it.  When  the  house  of 
Merrilees  became  full  of  the  things  he  had  bought,  and  the 
money  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  spend  had  increased 
very  considerably,  he  hit  upon  this  method  of  spending  it 
and  yet  keeping  its  value  for  his  heir. 

"  That  heir,  until  he  decided  to  recognise  his  son,  was  to 
be  Mr.  Guy  Bertram.  But  Sir  Roderick  took  very  little 
interest  in  that  gentleman.  He  had  given  him  a  good 
allowance,  but  Mr.  Bertram  had  never  done  anything  with 
his  time  or  opportunities,  and  for  the  last  ten  years  I  never 
remember  Sir  Roderick  mentioning  his  name.  But  he  was 
his  only  living  relative  besides  yourself,  and  he  would  have 
succeeded  to  all  Sir  Roderick's  property  if  Sir  Roderick  had 
not  decided  eventually  to  recognise  you  as  his  son.  I  do 
not  know  whether  he  meant  to  leave  him  anything  in  his 
will,  as  he  never  told  me,  but,  as  he  never  made  a  will,  you 
will  naturally  succeed  to  everything. 

"  Sir  Roderick  had  told  me  that  I  was  to  be  sole  executor 
of  his  estate,  and  I  knew  that  I  ought  to  hand  over  to  you, 
his  heir,  all  his  property.  But  I  could  not  do  this  before 
March  i4th  of  this  year  without  disclosing  the  secret,  and 
I  could  not  prevent  Mr.  Bertram  from  taking  possession. 
What  I  could  do  was  to  prevent  the  bulk  of  Sir  Roderick's 
fortune,  which  was  represented  by  the  jewels,  from  falling 
into  his  hands,  and  I  did  this  by  hiding  them  in  the  same 
secret  place  in  which  I  had  laid  Sir  Roderick's  body. 
When  the  time  comes  I  shall  produce  them,  or  if  I  die 
before  that,  Braithwaite,  who  knows  where  they  are,  has 
my  instructions  to  produce  them. 

"  Having  done  what  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  do,  I  went 
straight  to  Glasgow  and  took  up  the  partnership  which 
was  at  my  disposal  in  my  present  firm,  and  by  the  time 
the  facts  of  the  case  became  known,  and  the  hue  and  cry 
was  raised  against  me,  I  had  been  for  some  days  quietly 


374  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

working  at  my  business.  I  consider  it  a  fortunate  chance 
that  I  have  not  been  found  out  here.  If  that  had  happened, 
as  I  feared  it  would,  I  should  have  given  up  the  jewels,  if  I 
could  have  done  so  without  disclosing  the  secret  of  where 
I  had  hidden  them,  and  put  up  with  whatever  might  have 
come  to  me  for  the  rest  until  the  appointed  time.  I  fully 
hope,  now  that  I  have  been  able  to  keep  myself  undiscovered 
for  so  long,  that  I  shall  be  able  to  keep  everything  to 
mysalf  until  the  i4th  of  March,  when  you  will  come  by 
your  own,  and  I  shall  be  rid  of  a  great  responsibility. 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  anything  more  to  say.  I  have 
explained  everything  as  well  as  I  am  able,  and  I  ask  you  not 
to  think  harshly  of  me.  In  all  these  things  I  have  tried  to 
do  my  duty  by  my  master,  Sir  Roderick  Bertram,  whom  it 
has  been  the  object  of  my  life  to  serve  to  the  best  of  my 
powers,  and  whom  I  fully  hope  to  meet  again  in  another 
world. 

"ROBERT  MARTIN  RICHARDS." 

George  had  taken  this  paper  into  the  inner  library  to 
read  first  of  all  by  himself  before  he  should  make  its 
contents  known  to  Guy  and  Calthorp.  He  sat  for  a  long 
time  thinking  when  he  had  read  the  last  page  and  laid  it 
down  in  front  of  him.  Many  things  became  clear  to  him 
which  had  hitherto  been  hidden,  but  there  was  no  bitter- 
ness in  his  mind  against  the  man  whose  actions,  so  crooked 
and  yet,  when  the  circumstances  were  known,  so  logical, 
had  caused  him  such  disquiet.  It  was  rather  pity  that 
swayed  him  as  he  thought  of  Richards's  life,  devoted  to 
one  overmastering  purpose,  laudable  enough  in  itself,  but 
leading  him  in  its  exaggeration  of  its  compulsion  on  him- 
self to  such  strange  travesties  of  loyalty,  and  bringing  him 
in  the  end  to  so  terrible  a  death. 

But  it  was  towards  his  father  that  his  thoughts  naturally 


THE  MYSTERY  CLEARED.  375 

turned  themselves.  Here  again  he  felt  no  bitterness  towards 
the  man  who  had  disowned  him  and  condemned  him  to  a 
life  of  probable  obscurity  and  poverty.  He  admitted  no 
doubt  in  his  mind  of  the  conviction  that,  in  spite  of  Sir 
Roderick's  being  in  complete  possession  of  his  wonderful 
brain  power  in  most  of  the  affairs  of  life  until  the  end,  in 
one  he  had  been  thrown  off  his  balance,  and  must  not  be 
judged  as  other  men.  The  thought  that  took  most  hold  of 
him  was  that  his  father  had  been  proud  of  him.  He 
thanked  God  that  he  was  permitted  to  know  that.  He  sat 
for  a  long  time  at  the  table  which  Sir  Roderick  had  used 
daily  through  the  long  years  of  his  lonely  life,  and  tried  to 
picture  him  to  himself  with  a  yearning  that  he  could  not 
repress.  If  only  a  year  could  roll  back,  and  he  <ould  1  e 
in  this  room  with  the  man  who  had  then  sat  where  he 
was  sitting  now !  If  only  he  could  have  spoken  the  few 
words  to  him  that  would  have  given  him  the  memory  of 
his  voice  and  his  look ! 

He  thought  of  his  own  past  life.  There  was  nothing  to 
regret  in  the  way  of  it.  He  was  better  off  now,  he  told 
himself,  than  if  he  had  always  been  surrounded  by  the 
circumstances  of  wealth  and  position.  And  he  had  the 
supreme  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  it  had  recommended 
itself  to  his  father,  nay  more,  that  by  his  own  steady^ 
upward  course  he  now  stood  where  he  did,  acknowledged 
before  the  world  as  his  father's  son.  His  only  regret — and 
it  was  very  deep — was  that  he  had  never  known  his  father, 
never  heard  him  speak,  and  never  taken  his  hand.  Well, 
it  was  of  no  use  sighing  for  what  could  never  be. 

He  turned  again  to  the  paper  before  him,  and  read  it 
through  a  second  time.  His  thoughts  turned  to  Guy,  whose 
house  of  cards  had  now  fallen,  demolished  finally  and 
completely  by  the  bald  facts  of  this  document.  What  was 
he  to  do,  deprived  of  his  income  and  with  no  profession  by 


376  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

which  he  could  hope  to  cam  a  living,  at  any  rate  for  some 
time  to  come?  His  own  great  wealth  had  coloured 
George's  thoughts  scarcely  at  all.  He  considered  it  now 
as  a  means  of  being  able  to  provide  for  his  newly  found 
cousin,  as  his  own  father  had  provided  for  him.  But  he 
knew  enough  of  Guy  to  make  him  diffident  of  offering 
him  money.  There  must  be  some  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 
He  shrank  from  going  out  to  read  the  paper  to  Guy.  He 
rose  and  went  to  the  window  looking  west  into  the  wood, 
carpeted  with  wild  daffodils.  He  turned  over  the  question 
in  his  mind,  but  it  gradually  ceased  to  hold  him,  and  he 
mused  again  on  his  father  and  on  the  story  he  had  just 
read. 

He  turned  again  to  the  writing  table,  and  opened  the 
drawer  in  which  he  and  Lord  Caradoc  had  found  the 
pamphlet  containing  his  own  prize  essay.  The  drawer  was 
filled  almost  entirely  with  the  catalogues  of  second-hand 
booksellers  and  other  similar  papers.  George  turned  them 
over.  He  had  opened  the  drawer  with  the  hope  of  finding 
the  illustrated  paper  containing  his  portrait  which  Martin 
had  mentioned,  or  some  other  sign  of  his  having  been  in 
his  father's  thoughts.  There  was  nothing  except  the  prize 
essay.  He  was  just  about  to  close  the  drawer  when  his 
eye  was  caught  by  the  corner  of  a  sheet  of  paper  sticking 
out  of  the  page  of  a  catalogue  of  plants.  It  was  covered 
with  the  writing  which  he  knew  to  be  his  father's,  pencil 
jottings  of  a  large  order  despatched  to  the  nurseryman. 
He  turned  the  paper  over.  There  was  a  list  of  names  and 
initials  on  the  other  side,  and  against  them  were  pencilled 
sums  of  money.  On  the  top  was  written  the  word 
*  Legacies,"  and  below  it  at  the  head  of  the  list  "  G.  C. 
Bertram,  £30,000."  George's  heart  leaped  with  pleasure. 
He  had  come  upon  just  what  he  wanted  at  that  moment, 
although  not  what  he  was  looking  for.  It  was  a  rough 


THE  MYSTERY  CLEARED.  377 

memorandum  of  the  legacies  his  father  had  intended  to 
leave  out  of  the  great  fortune  which  was  to  go  to  his  son. 

George  hesitated  no  longer,  but  went  out  of  the  room 
with  the  two  papers  in  his  hand  to  disclose  their  contents 
to  Guy. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

THE  END  OP  THE  STORY. 

t 

Ix  the  autumn  of  the  year  there  was  a  double  wedding 
at  Hollingbourne  Hall,  Lord  Conder's  seat  in  Hertfordshire. 
So  wide  was  the  hospitality  of  the  Conder  family,  and  so 
rejoiced  was  Lord  Conder  to  put  his  seat  in  Hertfordshire 
at  the  disposal  of  any  one  of  his  numerous  relatives  who 
had  no  seat  of  his  own,  but  wished  for  the  temporary  use 
of  one  for  any  function  of  this  sort,  that  it  seemed  the  most 
obvious  thing  in  the  world  that  Cicely,  who  had  accepted 
the  offer  that  George  had  made  her  a  few  months  before, 
should  be  married  from  her  uncle's  house.  Lord  Caradoc 
had  not  again  returned  to  Merrilees  after  the  startling 
events  of  the  spring  had  once  more  made  that  house  a 
centre  of  universal  interest ;  and  his  tenancy  was  now  at 
an  end.  He  had  not,  however,  found  another  country  house 
to  his  liking,  and  nothing,  not  even  his  daughter's  wedding, 
would  have  induced  him  to  spend  as  much  as  a  week  in 
his  castle  in  Wales.  He  had  been  quite  happy  during  the 
three  months  of  the  summer,  for  the  fates  had  been  kind 
enough  to  enable  him  to  rent  his  old  rectory  for  that  period. 
He  had  been  driven  out  of  it,  however,  at  the  end  of 
August,  and  when  Lady  Conder  had  suggested  that  Cicely 
should  be  married  from  Hollingbourne  Hall,  at  the  instiga- 
tion of  Mrs.  Herbert,  he  had  fallen  in  with  the  suggestion 
with  sufficient  show  of  gratitude  to  make  it  plain  that  the 
castle  in  Wales  had  begun  to  throw  a  somewhat  persistent 
shadow  across  his  path, 


THE  END  OF  THE  STORY.  379 

Peggy  had  lived  in  Lord  Caradoc's  household  ever  since 
her  father's  death,  and  her  short,  interrupted  courtship  had 
renewed  itself,  to  her  quiet  and  increasing  happiness.  The 
reversal  of  Guy's  prospects  and  fortunes  had  borne  on  him 
hardly  at  first,  and  a  chorus  of  sympathy  had  risen  to  the 
heavens  on  account  of  a  young  man  who  was  deprived 
at  one  blow  of  a  baronetcy,  a  vast  fortune,  and  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  houses  in  England.  But  before  it  had  died 
down  Guy  himself  discovered  that  there  were  compensations 
in  his  lot,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  happier  than  he 
had  ever  been  in  his  life  before.  The  fortunate  discovery 
of  the  sheet  of  Sir  Roderick's  notes  made  it  possible  for 
him  to  accept  from  George  a  sum  of  money  which  provided 
him  with  a  sufficient  income,  and,  as  Peggy  was  now  an 
heiress  in  a  small  way,  their  married  life  would  begin  under 
favourable  circumstances,  financial  and  otherwise. 

Guy  had  lost  a  great  deal,  but  he  had  won  Peggy,  and, 
with  his  easy  adjustable  nature,  he  accepted  what  the  gods 
had  sent  him  and  was  a  happy  man.  It  came  to  be  settled 
that  he  and  Peggy  should  be  married  at  the  same  time  as 
George  and  Cicely,  and  the  hospitalities  of  Hollingbourne 
Hall  were  as  freely  extended  to  this  second  marriage  as 
they  had  been  to  that  of  Lord  Conder's  niece. 

On  the  evening  before  the  wedding  George,  Guy,  Bobby 
Conder,  and  Calthorp  were  dining  together  at  the  old 
White  Hart  Inn  in  the  village  of  Hollingbourne.  The  two 
bridegrooms  and  their  solicitor  were  staying  there, 
and  Bobby  Conder,  who  was  to  act  as  best  man  to 
both  of  them,  had  come  over  to  dine  on  the  last  night  of 
their  bachelorhood.  After  dinner  the  four  of  them,  who 
had  been  through  such  stirring  experiences  together,  talked 
over  all  that  had  happened  within  the  last  year.  Guy  was 
by  far  the  most  excited  and  light-hearted  of  them  all. 

"  I  wouldn't  exchange  my  prospects  now  for  any  I  had  a 


380  THE  HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

year  ago  for  anything  in  the  world,"  he  said.  "  George,  my 
boy,  as  I've  often  told  you,  there's  no  one  envies  you  your 
possessions  less  than  your  respectful  cousin  Guy  Bertram." 

"  My  only  regret  as  far  as  you  are  concerned,"  said 
George, "  is  that  you  were  allowed  to  take  my  place  for 
those  months  only  to  be  disappointed  of  it  in  the  end." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  that,"  said  Guy  airily.  "  It  is  some- 
thing to  have  called  a  house  like  Merrilees  one's  own  if  it 
was  only  for  eight  months.  And  there's  my  cottage  in  Surrey 
ready  forme  and  Peggy,  the  prettiest  little  place  in  the  world. 
I  should  never  have  built  that  or  put  some  of  the  most 
beautiful  things  from  Merrilees  into  it  if  I  hadn't  been 
bluffed  into  calling  myself  Sir  Guy  Bertram  for  that  short 
time.  My  dear  George,  your  wedding  present  of  all  those 
treasures  will  always  stand  to  me  as  the  symbol  of 
munificence." 

"  You  make  me  ashamed,"  said  George.  "  I  wish  you 
would  take  a  lot  more.  You  know  you  can  have  what- 
ever you  like." 

"  I  have  enough,  and  more  than  enough,"  said  Guy.  **  In 
fact,  I  don't  think  I've  got  anything  left  to  wish  for." 

"  How  about  the  painting  ?  "  asked  Bobby  Conder. 

M  The  painting,"  said  Guy,  "  will  be  carried  on  diligently 
in  the  commodious  studio  attached  to  Mr.  Bertram's  cottage 
in  Surrey.  In  about  twenty  years'  time,  or  less,  there  will 
be  two  baronets  of  the  name  of  Bertram,  and  one  of  them 
will  have  the  letters  R.A.  after  his  name." 

"  May  it  be  so,"  said  Bobby,  "  and  I  will  buy  your  first 
picture  if  the  price  is  not  too  stiff,  and  if  they  don't  start 
too  many  new  football  clubs  in  my  constituency." 

"  I  have  booked  the  first  picture,"  said  George.  **  It  is  to 
be  hung  with  the  rest  at  Merrilees." 

"  With  two  such  patrons  clamouring  for  my  works,"  said 
Guy,  "  my  future  is  assured," 


THE   END  OF  THE  STORY.  381 

The  talk  drifted  back,  as  it  often  did  when  these  four 
were  together,  to  the  events  of  the  past  year,  culminating 
in  that  terrible  moment  when  they  had  battled  their  way 
up  the  secret  stair  from  the  deadly  rush  of  water.  They 
talked  of  Sir  Roderick  and  his  strange  life,  and  they  talked 
of  Richards. 

"  What  I  shall  never  forgive  that  gentleman  for,"  said 
Calthorp,  "  is  his  calm  assurance  in  sitting  down  quietly 
in  a  place  like  Glasgow  and  letting  me  and  my  detectives 
run  all  over  England,  to  say  nothing  of  Italy,  looking  for 
him.  It  is  a  point  that  I  shall  not  dwell  on  when  I  am 
recounting  the  story  of  Merrilees  to  the  children  gathered 
round  my  knee." 

"  It  is  just  as  well  that  you  did  not  find  him,"  said 
George.  "  He  would  have  told  us  nothing,  and  the  conse- 
quences to  him  might  not  have  been  pleasant." 

"Do  you  think  he  would  really  have  held  out,"  asked 
Bobby,  "  if  he  had  been  run  to  earth  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  George.  "  His  devotion  to  what  he  thought 
his  duty  to — to  my  father  was  almost  a  monomania  with 
him.  I  don't  think  he  would  have  minded  in  the  least 
what  happened  to  himself  if  he  could  have  kept  his  trust." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Calthorp.  "  He  would  never 
have  told  anything  until  the  time  came.  And  '  mono- 
mania '  is  the  right  word.  We  have  all  of  us  got  at  least 
one  such  idiosyncrasy.  His  was — what  we  know  it  was.  Mine 
is  an  inclination  to  go  to  bed  when  I  feel  sleepy,  so  I  think 
I  will  say  good-night." 

George  accompanied  Bobby  Conder  on  his  homeward 
way,  and  when  he  had  parted  from  him  at  the  door  of  the 
Hall,  walked  slowly  back  under  the  September  moon, 
thinking  of  many  things.  His  mood  was  not  as  light  as 
Guy's.  The  change  which  had  brought  him  great  posses- 
sions had  brought  him  sorrows  as  well,  which  had  left  their 


382  THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES. 

mark  on  his  character.  He  asked  himself  why  his  thoughti 
were  melancholy  on  the  eve  of  a  day  on  which  he  was  to  gain 
the  supreme  desire  of  his  heart.  He  loved  Cicely  with  all 
the  strength  of  his  nature.  He  had  loved  her  from  the  first, 
and  his  love  had  only  deepened  through  the  months  which 
had  followed.  And  yet  there  had  been  none  of  that  thrilling 
joy  in  his  courtship  which  had  made  the  same  months  pass 
like  a  delightful  dream  to  Guy  and  Peggy.  He  was  beset 
with  doubt  as  to  whether  he  had  done  well  in  forcing  his 
love,  as  he  expressed  it  to  himself,  upon  the  shy,  exquisite 
creature  who  had  been  a  friend  to  him  since  he  had  first 
known  her,  but  had  never  of  her  own  accord  given  him  the 
response  to  his  deep  passion  that  a  lover  craves  for.  Cicely 
had  accepted  him.  Why  should  she  have  accepted  him  if 
she  did  not  love  him  ?  Did  she  love  him  ?  He  could  not 
tell.  She  had  never  told  him  so,  and  he  had  never  asked 
her.  He  had  put  the  strongest  constraint  on  himself 
during  the  past  months  never  to  frighten  her  by  an  undue 
display  of  his  feelings  towards  her.  Those  months  had 
brought  him  more  pain  than  pleasure.  He  had  done  his 
utmost  to  make  her  love  him,  but  there  was  nothing  to 
show  that  he,  who  had  succeeded  in  everything  that  he  had 
set  his  mind  to,  had  succeeded  in  this.  To-morrow  Cicely 
was  to  become  his  wife.  He  stood  under  the  light  of  the 
harvest  moon  and  vowed  his  life  to  her  service.  He  would 
wait  for  her  love  until  she  yielded  it  to  him  of  her  own 
accord.  His  wooing  should  not  cease  with  his  marriage, 
and  by-and-bye  he  prayed  that  he  might  be  blessed  with  that 
beside  which  his  wealth  and  his  name  were  as  nothing  to 
him. 

The  things  which  we  have  recorded  took  place  some 
years  ago.  Before  we  leave  the  characters  with  whom  we 
have  watched  the  strange  course  of  events  we  will  take  a 


THE   END  OF  THE  STORY.  383 

glimpse  at  their  after-life  when  the  public  interest  in  their 
affairs  had  died  down  again.  And  first  we  will  visit  the 
spacious  cottage  amongst  the  pines  of  the  Surrey  hills  the 
country  home  of  that  popular  artist  Guy  Bertram,  A.R.A. — 
the  country  home  only,  for  Guy  Bertram  spends  part  of  the 
year  in  a  fine  house  in  London,  where  many  rich  and 
beautiful  ladies  come  to  him  to  be  portrayed  in  a  manner 
which  is  eminently  pleasing,  but  will  scarcely  hand  down 
his  name  to  posterity  among  the  great  portrait  painters  of 
the  century.  Guy's  vogue  as  a  fashionable  painter  dates 
from  the  time  when  his  name  came  finally  before  the 
public  as  that  of  one  who,  in  the  expiessive  words  of 
Mark  Twain's  "  Dauphin,"  had  been  "snaked  down  out'n 
a  high  place,"  and  he  had  had  no  lack  ot  patronage  ever 
since.  His  portraits  were  not  so  good  as  Sir  Joshua's,  but 
they  were  a  good  deal  better  than  those  of  other  artists 
whose  reputations  have  at  times  stood  high,  and  that  they 
were  appreciated  by  a  nation  which  does  not  insistently 
demand  great  work,  and  often  fails  to  recognise  it  when  it 
sees  it,  was  proved  by  the  fact  that  his  commissions  showed 
no  signs  of  falling  off,  and  he  had  more  than  once  increased 
his  charges.  Guy,  in  fact,  was  a  rich  man,  far  richer  than 
he  had  been  during  his  short  possession  of  Merrilees,  and 
he  was  a  very  happy  one. 

Perhaps  his  happiest  days  were  spent  in  the  house  to 
which  he  had  taken  his  bride  after  their  wedding  at 
Hollingbourne  Hall  and  their  honeymoon,  spent  in  Italy. 
The  cottage  had  been  enlarged,  but,  with  its  thatched 
roof,  its  red  walls,  and  its  oak  timbers,  it  was  still  a 
cottage,  and  as  pretty  a  one  as  any  artist  could  wish  to 
inhabit. 

Mrs.  Guy  Bertram  was  in  the  rose-garden  filling  the 
basket  she  carried  on  her  arm  from  the  loaded,  fragrant 
bushes.  She  was  the  same  happy,  roguish  Peggy  of  her 


384  THE   HOUSE  OF   MERRILEES. 

girlhood — at  least,  when  she  was  alone  with  her  husband 
and  children,  for  as  the  wife  of  a  distinguished  painter 
she  had  a  reserve  of  matronly  airs  to  exploit  in  her  fine 
house  in  Kensington.  Guy  was  lounging  by  her  side  in 
his  painting  jacket,  smoking  a  cigarette.  His  easel  was 
under  the  cedar  on  the  lawn,  and  he  was  engaged  for  his  own 
satisfaction  on  a  portrait  of  his  eldest  son,  who  was  not  a 
good  sitter,  and  had  escaped  from  his  thraldom  when  he 
saw  his  mother  come  out  of  the  house  with  her  flower- 
basket.  Guy  had  altered  very  little.  He  was  a  handsome 
man,  as  some  'of  the  more  indiscreet  amongst  his  lady 
patrons  had  sometimes  hinted  to  him ;  but  he  had  eyes 
only  for  one  woman  among  them  all,  and  was  never  so 
content  as  when  he  was  strolling  by  her  side,  as  now, 
through  his  beautiful  garden. 

The  little  boy  had  run  off  to  greet  a  friendly  gardener. 
Guy  took  his  wife's  face  between  his  hands  and  turned  it 
towards  his  own. 

"Do  you  remember  Hampstead  Heath  and  the  blind 
man  and  his  dog  ?  "  he  asked. 

Peggy's  eyes  grew  moist.  "We  have  never  been  there 
since,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  make  a  pilgrimage  when  we  go 
up  to  London." 

"  We  will  wait  till  the  proper  day  comes  round,"  he  said. 
"Then  we  will  go  there  and  renew  our  vojvs.  Not  that 
they  want  much  renewing.  They  will  never  wear  out,  will 
they,  sweetheart  ?  " 

'*  No,  never,"  said  Peggy.  "  Guy,  you  mustn't  do  that. 
I  am  an  elderly  married  woman,  and  the  gardener  is 
looking  at  us." 

"So  did  the  blind  man,"  said  Guy,  "and  he  made 
no  complaint.  Where  is  that  young  rascal  George? 
Amongst  the  strawberries  again,  I'll  be  bound.  I  must  go 
and  find  him." 


THE   END   OF  THE  STORY.  385 

It  was  the  time  of  the  roses  at  Merrilees,  too.  The 
terraces  lay  in  all  their  June  beauty  under  the  evening  sun, 
which  shone  on  the  sleeping  waters  of  the  lake  and  the 
heavy  folds  of  the  encircling  woods.  The  rooks  were 
homing  one  by  one  across  the  sky,  and  making  a 
tremendous  commotion  at  the  end  of  their  journey.  The 
cascade  chimed  its  silvery  way  down  its  flower-laden 
channel,  and  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  that  most 
beautiful  place  fell  gratefully  on  the  senses  of  the  two 
who  were  pacing  the  topmost  terrace  and  pausing  every 
now  and  then  to  look  at  the  fair  scene  that  lay  spread  out 
before  them. 

Cicely  was  hanging  on  her  husband's  arm.  The  look  in 
her  eyes  as  she  turned  towards  him  no  less  than  the  deep 
content  that  rested  on  his  face  showed  that  George  had 
found  his  way  to  the  innermost  sanctum  of  her  heart,  and 
that  his  fears  and  doubtings  were  over  for  ever. 

"  Think  of  what  we  should  have  been  doing  now  if  we 
had  not  broken  away  from  the  round  and  come  down 
here  !  "  Cicely  was  saying. 

"  Eating  a  dinner  much  too  big  for  anybody  in  a  hot 
room,"  said  George,  "  with  the  prospect  of  a  night  of  dull 
debate  for  me  and  for  you  a  round  of  duller  parties.  This 
is  better,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  this  is  better,"  she  said.  "I  wish  it  could  last 
longer.'* 

"  We  must  go  back  and  do  our  work  till  the  end  of  the 
session,"  said  George.  "Then  we  will  come  down  here 
again  and  steep  ourselves  in  the  delights  of  this  lovely 
place  until  we  get  tired  of  being  alone  together." 

M I  wonder  when  that  will  be  ?  "  said  Cicely  softly. 

**  Ah,  when  ?  "  said  George,  drawing  her  to  him.  "  And 
I  wonder  how  much  I  should  care  for  Merrilees  if  I  had  not 
you  here  to  share  it  with  me  ?  " 

H.H.  99 


386  THE   HOUSE   OF    MERRILEES. 

"  Would  you  do  what  poor  Sir  Roderick  did  if — if " 

*'  Oh,  don't,"  said  George,  an  expression  of  pain  crossing 
his  face.  "It  is  the  one  thing  in  life  that  I  could  not 
bear.  My  darling !  But  I  know  now  how  he  felt  and  how 
impossible  it  was  for  him  to  face  the  world  after  that  came 
to  him.  I  only  wonder  that  he  kept  the  force  of  mind 
necessary  to  make  him  write  that  great  book.  I  could  not 
have  done  it." 

"When  we  come  up  here  do  you  think  of  him  very 
much  ?  "  Cicely  asked.  "  I  do.  And  I  pity  him  more  and 
more." 

George  turned  towards  the  west,  where  behind  the  trees 
were  the  graves  clustered  round  Morthwaite  Church. 

"  I  think  of  him  joined  to  her  whom  he  loved  best  in 
the  world,"  he  said,  "  never  again  to  be  parted.  I  no 
longer  regret  anything.  My  life  is  so  full  of  happiness  that 
there  is  no  room  for  regret.  And  I  owe  it  all  to  you,  my 
heart.  Without  you  this  beautiful  house  of  Merrilees  would 
be  nothing  to  me.  With  you  it  is  Paradise." 

They  turned  from  the  paling  sky  and  went  indoors. 
They  were  met  at  the  door  of  the  library  by  Lord  Caradoc, 
older  and  rather  more  bent,  but  otherwise  the  same 
courteous  scholarly  gentleman  of  former  years.  Lord 
Caradoc  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  finding  a  country  house 
more  to  his  taste  than  his  castle  in  Wales,  which  he  had 
never  visited  since  his  daughter's  marriage.  He  spent  the 
greater  part  of  his  time  at  Merrilees,  and  was  devoted  to 
his  little  granddaughters.  Of  grandsons  he  had  none,  and 
this  was  the  only  hint  of  a  shadow  across  the  path  of 
George  and  Cicely. 

"  If  you  will  come  and  discuss  that  point  we  spoke  of 
when  you  are  disengaged,"  he  said  to  George,  "  you  will 
find  me  in  the  library." 

"  I  will  come  in  a  few  minutes,"  said  George.    "  Cicely 


THE   END   OF   THE   STORY.  387 

and   I   are   going   up  with  Mrs.  Herbert  to  look   at  the 
babies." 

And  so  we  must  leave  the  house  of  Merrilees,  with  the 
cloud  of  sorrow  and  mystery  that  had  rested  on  it  so  long 
lifted  at  last,  and  nothing  but  peace  and  contentment  to 
be  found  under  its  roof. 


THE    END. 


